Home For Christmas
by ladygris
Summary: Clint Barton has returned to New York City after four months away. He has begun to heal but is ready to be home. Now, he finds himself drawn into family, Christmas traditions, and SHIELD. But a face from the past sends the Avengers into a tailspin, and Clint must find the strength to bring two of their own home for Christmas. Sequel to "Long Time Comin'." Not Clintasha!
1. Long Road Back

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to the Avengers or their stories and/or settings. The only things I own are original characters that may or may not appear and my own plotlines. Any resemblance to any person, either living or fictional, is entirely coincidental and not the intention of the author.

**Author's Note:** So, I was going to wait a few more days to post this first chapter. But my husband has been after me since December began to get started on this and get it posted. I already have several chapters of the story written and a firm idea of where it's going. However, I had planned on this story being twelve or thirteen chapters. Instead, it's taken over, and I have no idea how many chapters it'll be. Yay for all of us because that's more fun! As a result, I will be posting every other day, more frequently if necessary.

A special thanks to **theicemenace** and **pisces317** for beta-ing this and listening to my brainstorming. And to my husband,**Lithane**, for the push to publish it sooner.

**One final note:** This story is a sequel to both "New York State of Mind" and "Long Time Comin'." I have no idea what to call the series, so if someone has any ideas, please let me know. I don't believe it is strictly necessary to read the other two stories, but there will be references to things that happened in the course of the stories, particularly "Long Time Comin'." I was planning to write a short story between "Long Time Comin'" and "Home For Christmas," but the characters decided to tell that particular story through the course of this one. The chapter titles are a bit out of order lyric-wise for the song, but I chose the lyrics that best fit rather than trying to fit the story to the song.

As always, hope you enjoy! ~lg

oOo

_I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love  
Even more than I usually do  
And although I know it's a long road back  
I promise you_

_I'll be home for Christmas  
You can plan on me.  
Please have snow and mistletoe  
And present under the tree  
Christmas Eve will find me  
Where the love light gleams  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams._

_~Kim Gannon, Walter Kent, Buck Ram~_

oOo

Clint would never forget the scene as long as he lived. He had just pulled into New York City after a forty-two hour drive and arrived exhausted. Somewhere in Chicago, he'd had his fill of Christmas music on random radio stations and stopped to grab some CDs for his truck. Humming along with "New York State of Mind," arguably his favorite song, he parked in Stark Tower's underground garage and sighed. He'd done it. It was the first day of December, and he'd made it home for Christmas.

Summoning energy he wasn't sure he possessed, he slipped out of his truck and reached for his duffel bag. His bow and Coulson's guitar followed, resulting in a bedraggled appearance that startled the receptionist when she saw him. She did a double-take and straightened. "Can I help you, sir?"

Clint offered a friendly smile and shook his head. "No. Thanks." He felt her eyes follow him to the private elevator that would take him to the Commons. Those eyes widened even further when he punched in his personal code on the keypad Stark had provided. It prevented anyone but the Avengers and Pepper Potts from using the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed on the startled receptionist, Clint looked at the ceiling. "JARVIS?"

"Welcome home, Agent Barton." The AI's British voice sounded almost excited.

"It's just 'Clint.'"

"Of course, Sir."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Have you told Stark I'm here yet?"

"No, Sir." JARVIS hesitated. "Mr. Stark is. . .indisposed. . .at the moment."

"TMI," Clint muttered. To the AI, he said, "Well, don't tell anyone I'm here. I'd like to surprise them."

"Very good, Sir."

Clint leaned against the back wall and rode the rest of the way in silence. The polished brass reflected his appearance back to him, and he sighed. He really did look like a homeless bum. No wonder the receptionist had been so surprised.

Figuring the others would be okay with his scruffy self, Clint took those few moments to study his eyes. He hadn't shaved since before his visit to Coulson's girlfriend, and the scruff had reached the point of annoying him. His gray-blue eyes had bags under them that spoke of sleepless nights, but he felt so at peace that he could ignore that. A few nights in his own bed, reacquainting himself with his surroundings, and he'd be right as rain. Then, he shrugged. Well, almost right as rain.

At that moment, the elevator doors opened on the unforgettable scene. Clint had started to pick up his gear, but he blinked and froze with only his duffel bag over his shoulder. His bow and guitar had been propped against his legs, and he instantly wished for a camera.

Natasha and Steve stood next to the door leading onto the balcony, exchanging amused glances and smothering most of their laughter. Thor's right arm was buried up to his shoulder in a Christmas tree that brushed the vaulted ceiling. He leaned slightly to keep from crushing the lower branches, a bored expression on his face. An inordinate amount of cursing, muttering, and arguing came from _under_ the tree, where Clint saw two sets of legs. One was clad in slacks and loafers while the other belonged to Iron Man. The Christmas tree wobbled back and forth as Bruce and Stark continued to fight.

Footsteps to his right pulled Clint's gaze from the fiasco. Pepper Potts carried a tray of cookies from the kitchen and also froze, her eyes glued to him. "Clint! You're back!" Her voice, warm and welcoming, swept through the area and caused the hilarious scene to escalate.

Steve, Natasha, and Thor turned. Stark sat up, his helmet-less head poking through the branches as Bruce cursed. The Christmas tree overbalanced due to Thor's inattention and began falling right onto where Bruce still lay underneath it. Steve rushed forward to help Thor catch it, and Stark dove back under the tree. A moment later, he crowed triumphantly. "Got it!" The tree jerked as it settled into the planter.

As everyone breathed a sigh of relief, Clint smirked. "No wonder JARVIS said you were indisposed." He picked up his gear and walked toward the tree, not minding the weight of his belongings as it pulled on his shoulders. "How'd you get that thing up here?"

Stark crawled out from under the tree and stood to his feet, holding out his hands as if Clint had just asked a silly question. Which, to Stark's mind, he had. "You forget who I am!"

Pepper rolled her eyes. "He flew it up the side of the building and brought it through the balcony doors." She set down the tray of cookies to move to Clint's side. "Welcome home."

"It's Christmas," Stark replied as if she hadn't already changed the subject. "We can't have Christmas without a tree."

Clint had to agree. He accepted Pepper's hug, returned Natasha's hug, shook hands with Steve and Bruce, and nodded to Thor. Stark picked pine needles from his suit, fussing as he did so. "These things are gonna take days to clear out!"

Steve shook his head. "That's what you get for choosing a live tree!"

"Yeah, well, you're doing the lights," Stark said quietly, carelessly dropping the pine needles on the floor.

Steve smirked at Natasha before continuing the argument. "And you could have bought one of those fancy ones that already had the lights on it."

"Really?" Stark scoffed as he turned to Clint. "Capsicle, here, wanted a pre-lit tree." He stuck out his armored hand. "Welcome back."

Clint shook the hand without blinking. "Thanks. You know, the Cap has a point. No stringing lights."

Stark shrugged. "But stringing lights is half the fun."

"Says you," Steve muttered. But he trudged over to the boxes of brand new lights that had been stacked by the couch and began sorting through them one at a time. He separated them by color and soon had equal amounts of red, white, and blue lights.

Clint blinked at that and caught Stark's eye. The billionaire smirked at his knowing look and clomped away to get out of his suit.

Pepper shook her head with a longsuffering sigh as Natasha moved to help Steve begin applying lights to the tree. They spoke softly to one another, and Clint simply stood back and watched. A few moments later, he realized that Bruce was studying him. He knew what the good doctor saw and decided to preempt the man. Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he announced, "I'm gonna just get cleaned up a bit."

Natasha barely glanced up, her expression only vaguely concerned, as he gathered his gear and trudged to the stairs. Since their rooms, if the suites could be called "rooms," were only one floor below the Commons area, Stark had installed a grand staircase that led down one level. It was just as luxurious as the rest of the living area, the staircase curving around the slightly rounded exterior of the building. Once on the correct floor, Clint walked down the hall and shook his head. The hallways were wide, carpeted, and better-decorated than some five-star hotels Clint had stayed in.

He found his rooms easily enough and pushed through the door. Nothing had been disturbed that he could see, and it instantly set his mind at ease. The weather had changed as Clint drove into New York, covering everything in a gray pall that promised snow. As the darkness deepened, the lights of New York sparkled through the windows and glittered on the glass. The king-sized bed sat to the left of the windows, out of sight from the outside but still allowing Clint to see the view. A large armoire hid a television, and a walk-in closet housed only a few changes of clothes. The room was bigger than anything Clint had ever had in the past, and the fact that it also had a sitting area that resembled a living room and its very own kitchen. . . .This place was a very luxurious studio apartment.

Dropping his belongings in the middle of the floor, Clint opened the duffel bag and pulled out his shave kit. He snagged some clean laundry along the way and, within seconds, stood under a hot spray of water for the first time in two days. He sighed deeply, enjoying the sensation while the tension that had built in his shoulders drained away. Coming home, while something he wanted to do, had worried him. Things were different, though he couldn't be certain just how. He had sensed it as Stark complained about pine needles in his suit's joints and Natasha helped Steve with the Christmas lights. Everyone felt so settled, and he suddenly realized he'd missed a large portion of their bonding.

Shutting off the water after he'd shaved and felt slightly human again, Clint dried and dressed, his stomach rumbling in spite of his body's need for sleep. He'd pushed to get home by today, and he knew he'd collapse sooner rather than later. Instead of really considering it, he quickly started a load of laundry, courtesy of the new stackable washer and dryer tucked in a corner of his suite, and trudged back upstairs.

Stark had returned and was side-seat driving while Steve and Natasha finished stringing lights on the tree. It looked fantastic, almost as good as any pre-lit tree for the even spacing of the lights. Natasha ignored Stark but listened when Steve spoke, her expression open and calm as she looked at the super soldier. Clint narrowed his eyes as he watched, content to remain in the background and absorb the impressions from this eclectic group. _Something_ had changed between Steve and Natasha, and Clint grinned. So, the Black Widow found herself truly attracted to someone after all.

Pepper and Bruce were in the kitchen, chatting and laughing as they put the finishing touches on a pan of lasagna. The smell made Clint's stomach rumble again, and he hoped no one heard it before they got done eating. He'd survived on take-out food and drive-thrus for most of the four months he'd been away. A home-cooked meal appealed on a very deep, almost instinctual, level.

Stark and Thor stood off to one side. Stark held a red bauble in his hand, happily explaining how to decorate a Christmas tree to the Asgardian. Clint watched, intrigued, as Thor gently took the glass ball and frowned. But he played along with Stark and hung it on a branch. Soon, others followed, all of them red or silver. Clint had begun to see a theme to Stark's machinations and wondered what the billionaire had up his sleeve.

Stark turned at that moment and caught sight of Clint. "Hey, Legolas, got something for you to do, too." He waited while Clint crossed the room before pointing. "That box, there, is yours."

Clint eyed the box and raised an eyebrow. He didn't need to see inside to know what it was. "A Santa's workshop?"

Stark shoved his shoulder. "Just set it up. You'll like it!" He turned to frown at the tree and then nodded. "Looks great, Point Break. But you need more. Lots more."

As Tony went back to micromanaging the decorations on the tree, Clint opened the box and proceeded to dump the packing peanuts on the floor. He did it to get a rise out of Stark, and it worked beautifully. For the next several minutes, Clint grinned like a two-year-old as Stark hurried to clean up the mess before Pepper saw it. He needn't have bothered because Pepper had chuckled when Clint made the mess in the first place.

Dragging the heavy objects out of the box, Clint's attitude switched from humoring the billionaire to genuine appreciation. Someone—and Clint sincerely wanted to meet the artist—had hand-carved a Santa Claus about two feet tall with six elves. Santa's cheeks were rosy, his suit a burgundy color, and his smile contagious. The elves, which would set up all around him, wore various costumes of red, green, white, and gold. Santa had a bag of presents at his feet, spilling over onto the ground, while the elves each carried toys and boxes. Clint examined each one individually, marveling at the craftsmanship, before putting it to the side and unpacking the next. They were all hand-painted and belonged in a museum somewhere.

Then, he froze. The final elf to come out of the box was the rebel of the group. Each one had possessed some defining feature, whether red hair, greenish skin, a glowing jewel, an American flag, or a flowing cape. But the final one wore wrap-around sunglasses and carried a bow and arrow. At that moment, Clint put the pieces together. These elves represented the Avengers. He turned back to the Santa figure and frowned. "Stark, got some black string and leather?"

_That_ question halted all conversation in the room. Clint looked up and frowned, seeing the mix of speculative grins and outright confusion. He shrugged. "What? You wanted me to set up the Santa and elves."

Stark blinked. "With _leather_?"

"Yeah." Clint held the billionaire's disbelieving stare. When no one moved, he stood. "Be right back." He trotted down the stairs back to his suite and opened his duffel bag. Taking out a pair of black jeans that had seen better days, he carefully cut a small piece from the torn knee and then returned to the Commons. By then, Pepper had found a length of leather twine which Clint declared perfect. Then, kneeling in front of the table where Stark wanted the entire set, he went to work.

By the time he'd finished, the rest of the group had abandoned their tasks to watch. The lasagna was in the oven, Thor had filled the tree, and Natasha and Steve waited patiently by the window. Clint arranged his Santa and elves on the table, adding sequin-studded cotton for snow and sat back. Santa now sported a neat black eye patch over his left eye. "There," Clint declared. "_Now_ the set's accurate."

Clint's addition to the Santa and elves sparked a lively conversation and plenty of laughter. He hadn't been around for four months, but he knew Stark would appreciate his sense of humor—even if he did fuss. Rather than causing a ruckus, though, Stark frowned at the Santa and declared he'd get a new one made, one with the right color skin and no beard.

The oven finally dinged, and the group began to set the table. But Stark frowned. "Wait." He marched back across the room, where the boxes of decorations had been discarded and picked through until he found the right one. Holding the innocuous box out to Natasha, he shrugged. "Do the honors?"

Clint saw Natasha tense immediately, knowing what the Black Widow would say. But Steve, who was next to her, reached out and touched her elbow. The touch lingered, and Clint narrowed his eyes as he watched. He wasn't jealous at all, just a bit surprised that _Steve_, of all people, would openly show affection like that. And Natasha accepted it! Clint blinked and simply stood there as Natasha opened the box. Her face dissolved into a smile at what the box held, and she shook her head. Leaving the group behind, she dragged a chair over to the Christmas tree and pulled the tree topper from the box. Then, with as much care as she ever showed, she climbed onto the chair and affixed the topper to the tree. It sparkled in the dim light, the gemstones—Clint suspected they were actual Swarovski crystals, based on the money Stark had spent on this thing—glittering brightly. The topper resembled the onion domes on Moscow's St. Basil's Cathedral, a clear nod to Natasha's Russian heritage.

Stark clapped his hands. "Now we can eat!"

Clint found himself in a chair between Steve and Bruce, eating a plate of lasagna and feeling as if he'd never left. His emotions ran the gamut from warm and fuzzy to cautious and apprehensive. He had known family once, and to have that feeling now, with this strange group of people, surprised him. Who was he that they so readily accepted him? His time away hadn't done him any favors by endearing him to them, but he found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't done since before his reunion with Barney. Somehow, he trusted them. He decided to figure out the _how_ later and just enjoy the revelation now. After all, he had made it home in time for Christmas. And he figured he might as well enjoy every bit of it while he could.

oOo

After dinner, Natasha insisted on cleaning the kitchen rather than leaving it to Pepper and Bruce. The rest of the Avengers, Clint included, wandered back into the living room and left her to her thoughts. She was grateful for the space. Decorating the Commons for Christmas had been fun, but she felt a bit crowded. So, she rinsed plates, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned up splattered spaghetti sauce while letting herself study the scene before her.

Stark had turned off all the lights in the Commons save those in the kitchen and the Christmas tree. There was enough ambient light that the men could see one another and quietly talk. Pepper had found a book, and Natasha was tempted to join the other woman. But Clint was back. Just like he'd promised, he'd come home for Christmas. That made her Christmas season even better.

"Hey." Steve's soft voice interrupted her thoughts, and Natasha turned sharply. He held up both hands. "Whoa. Easy. Didn't mean to startle you."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, Cap. I know I'm with friends."

He moved to stand beside her. "So, it's back to 'Cap?'"

She supposed he had a good point. A little over a month ago, Clint's brother asked for help. Natasha had been part of taking down an internationally-wanted fugitive, and it had resulted in a new-found attraction for Steve Rogers. The man behind Captain America had seen through her defensiveness and self-sufficiency and realized that a woman lived there. He didn't try anything suspicious, probably for fear she'd do something he didn't like, but it made Natasha feel special. Over the intervening weeks, they'd grown closer. She started calling him by his first name, and he often touched her arm or elbow just to be close. It didn't go beyond that, but Stark and the others saw what happened and wisely didn't comment. At least, they didn't comment in Natasha's hearing, which was an improvement for Stark.

Now, though, she sensed that awkwardness starting to creep in. "It's. . . ." She shook her head, her eyes on Clint as he laughed with Bruce as Stark talked himself into a corner. "He's back, and I'm glad. I just don't want. . . .I mean, I. . . ." She stuttered to a halt, surprised at not being able to articulate how she felt.

Steve nodded. "He'll adjust."

She glanced up to see the captain watching Clint's interactions with the rest of the team. "I know. But Clint's different. He's never had a family."

"He does, now." Steve nudged her arm. "You joining us or what?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, hearing Clint in those words and knowing her partner probably sent Steve over to bug her. "Yes. Just let me grab a drink."

The next hour passed in quiet conversation as the group enjoyed the Christmas tree and closeness they'd all developed. Natasha managed to let Clint settle into the group on his own rather than watching him closely like she wanted. At one point, Steve had gone to the windows to look outside, and Natasha naturally joined him. It was their habit, developed after their mission to recover Trish Starr, and none of the others questioned them as they fell into quiet contemplation and a soft discussion on what Steve remembered of Christmas.

After twenty minutes of reminiscing, though, Steve glanced over his shoulder and froze. Natasha turned, confused, until she saw Clint. Her partner, the infamous Hawkeye who never trusted anyone but her or Coulson, had scooted down into the couch until the back cushion supported his neck. His legs spread out in front of him comfortably and, much to everyone's shock, he had drifted to sleep in the middle of the room, with his back to the elevator, and unmindful of the chatter around him. Even Stark had the good sense not to poke the sleeping dragon, and Natasha met the billionaire's eyes.

Clint's actions weren't lost on any of them, least of all Natasha. It had taken him years to trust her enough to sleep in her presence. Yet, after only a couple of hours, he had decided that this group of people would watch his back long enough for his body to rest. It was a powerful realization of just how much he had healed after Loki's invasion, and no one minded the occasional snore as they all settled in to keep watch over their wayward team member as he slept.

~TBC


	2. Snow

**Author's Note:** Oh, my goodness! Thank you for all the reviews! It's been a lot of fun writing this story, and I just wanted to let you know that my every-other-day plans have already been disrupted. I have a massively busy weekend coming up, so it'll be Monday before the next chapter is posted. However, with how this story is progressing, there may be an increase in the frequency of my posting. I'll keep you updated!

**Harkpad:** Thank you for a wonderful review! I hadn't even planned on half of the stuff that happened in the first chapter. It just sort of flowed onto the page.

**B.D.:** Thank you! Your suggestion's been added to a growing list. :) Thanks for your review!

**Amy:** Christmas, Avengers Style! LOL! That's exactly what this is! You're not the only one who wants that "Santa Fury," as one of my other reviewers called it, and elves! Even I want it!

**jessica:** LOL! Jeremy Renner's rendition of "New York State of Mind" is what inspired this entire series in the first place! So there should be some Christmas caroling somewhere along the way.

So glad everyone's enjoying the story! Hope you like this chapter, too! ~lg

oOo

Clint stirred early the next morning, rolling over when his neck protested being kept in the same position for too long. He had awakened sometime the previous evening and stumbled down the stairs. Once in his rooms, he'd shucked his shoes and climbed into bed fully clothed. Now, he pried his eyes open to glance around. The pre-dawn light glinted on the dark wood of the matching bedroom set. The tall headboard behind him was simple, clean, with only crown molding along the top to call attention to it. The foot board matched, though it was much shorter, and the bedside tables and dresser sported "secret" drawers built in to the crown molding. After sleeping in hotels and safe houses for so long, seeing his home when he stirred was comforting, almost "normal."

Since it was so early, however, Clint simply rolled over and allowed himself to drift back to sleep. Stark had spared no expense on these suites, and Clint now took full advantage. He was warm, safe, and had a mattress that cradled his body so it took pressure off most of his sore spots. Not that he had any. He'd healed up well from any fights he and Barney had fought, and the cut on his arm was little more than a scratch now.

He slept for a while longer, finally waking to a sore back and full bladder. Clint frowned at the dim light in his room before he lifted his head suddenly. The clock, which he deliberately angled away from him, glowed blue on the wall. Turning it toward him, he blinked when he realized it was past ten in the morning. Sitting up the rest of the way, he scowled and looked at the windows. They were sheathed in gray, snow falling at a rate that meant they'd have a white Christmas if it continued. Rubbing one hand over his eyes, Clint rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He had long since become accustomed to sleeping in socks and almost fully clothed, never quite knowing when he'd get called for a mission. This morning, he took a quick but enjoyable shower, letting the warm water wake him the rest of the way and knock the fuzzy feeling from his mind.

This was the first peaceful night's sleep he'd had in months, outside of those moments when pure exhaustion caught up to him. He was under no illusions that he'd _decided_ to go to sleep last night, no matter what anyone else thought. As a trained SHIELD agent and assassin, he could put off almost any bodily function or need indefinitely. But, once his body decided it had had enough, he typically slept for ten hours or more. The last time he'd looked at the clock the previous night had been around seven, which meant he'd been snoozing for a combined total of fifteen hours. That was almost a record for him, though he could recall the time he'd slept for nearly twenty-two hours. He'd been exhausted, dehydrated, and on the verge of being hospitalized that time, but that was his record. Being unconscious didn't count.

Slapping the faucet to turn the water off, Clint dried and quickly dressed. He wandered into the kitchen to start coffee and then waited for it to brew by moving to the window. The room was warm, but he felt the chill coming off the glass. Still, it was a beautiful sight. The clouds had lightened somewhat, but the gray dimness kept streetlights from shutting off for the day. The city's lights glittered, and it brought a smile to his face. He curled his toes in the carpet, enjoying the sensation of going without socks for the first time in a while, and briefly considered lighting a fire in the fireplace. That meant he'd be staying here for a while, and, even though Clint knew he could be a loner, he didn't want to be secluded. Not yet. The dreams hadn't interrupted his sleep, and he wanted to find Natasha. She'd be able to tell him what had happened while he was gone, and he needed to bug her about Steve. Something was going on there, but he'd been too tired last night to do much more than notice.

While his coffee finished brewing, Clint made the bed and did a few chores in his room. He never turned on the lights, preferring to let the soft under-cabinet lights of the kitchen and the sparkle of a snow-bound New York guide his path. It was peaceful here, the snow dampening the sounds of the city, and he smiled as he poured his coffee before leaving his room. The hall was bright, though not painfully so, and he heard the crackle of a fire as he climbed the stairs into the Commons. Stark had outdone himself on this design, creating a space where all of the Avengers could live but still have their own quarters. Each of their suites were larger than most affordable apartments in New York, and the ability to congregate in the Commons or seclude oneself on the balcony kept all of them from feeling crowded.

Upstairs, Clint found Natasha on a couch that faced both the large fireplace and the Christmas tree. New York City spread out beyond the glass wall and large balcony, the beauty no less dimmed by the warm glow of the Commons. The scent of coffee and cinnamon mingled with the fire, and Clint eyed the cinnamon rolls on the counter. They were bakery-perfect but also very in character with what Stark would provide. Detouring to snag one with a conveniently-provided napkin, he then rounded the far corner of the couch, giving Natasha fair warning of his arrival by sighing loudly.

She glanced up, grinning, when he dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. "Hey."

Clint found an empty spot on the table to set his silver travel mug. "Morning."

It was all so common and utterly charming. Clint and Barney had greeted one another with quiet nods, but Natasha liked to hear voices first thing. Of course, she'd been up for hours, based on the classified SHIELD file she'd spread across the coffee table. Clint glanced over it, seeing intel reports and blueprints mixed together. She had a SHIELD laptop but, in true form, preferred to handle the files herself. They'd spent hours with files scattered around them, sitting on the floor and planning an op late into the night. Because of their close friendship, a lot of people on the Helicarrier thought they were romantically involved, though Clint knew better. Natasha was safe, a person he could trust with anything in his life and know it would remain with her.

Turning to the Christmas tree, Clint studied it while eating his breakfast. The roll was soft, as if freshly made, and tasted just fabulous with his very black coffee. He nodded to the tree and, by default, the scene outside. "It's something, isn't it?"

Natasha's lips turned up in a soft smile, the one she reserved for those things she truly enjoyed. "Yes." She nudged his foot with her own. "I'm glad you're back."

Clint grinned at her. "Me, too." He finished off his cinnamon roll and braced his elbows on his knees. "How've you been?"

She shrugged with one shoulder. "Good. Things have been quiet lately."

He grinned over his shoulder. "As if that's a bad thing."

Natasha conceded his point with a nod. "I'm just used to having more to do." Her eyes moved to the paperwork. "More to do, mission-wise. I never realized how much he actually did."

Clint nodded, his face sobering. He really didn't want to ruin his good mood, but he knew they needed to talk about Coulson sometime. Surprisingly, though, the pain of that loss had dimmed slightly after his visit to Portland. "He was amazing."

Natasha eyed him. "Sorry I brought it up. I know. . . ."

Clint waved a hand. "Don't be." He glanced at her again. "I went and saw Jennifer. His girlfriend."

"And?"

"Did you know he talked about us?" Clint shrugged. "Well, Jennifer said he talked about _me_, but it stands to reason you were mentioned a time or two as well."

Natasha accepted that with a nod. "How's she doing? Jennifer, I mean."

He took a moment to think about that. "She's. . .good." He shook his head, his eyes staring sightlessly at the table. "She's grieving, of course, and receiving Coulson's letter was tough. But she looked like she was coping well." Clint frowned. "Did you know he was planning on leaving SHIELD?"

_That_ tidbit startled Natasha. She blinked suddenly. "Phil Coulson? Leave SHIELD?"

Clint shrugged. "It's not anything he said specifically. But I picked it up in how he talked about Jennifer." He nodded. "I think, if he'd made it, he would have left SHIELD anyway, retired to Portland, and raised a couple kids."

Natasha stared at him. "Will I ever stop being surprised by Coulson?" she asked.

"Probably not." Clint leaned back on the couch, angling himself into a corner and grinning at her. "So, what's changed with you? Besides the obvious," he clarified with a wave toward the paperwork.

"Not much," she replied. "Things are different, but life's the same."

He sighed, his mind still trying to wake up. "Listen, Tasha, I need to ask about Barney."

She settled back into the couch as well. "SHIELD set him and Trish up in Maine, where he can live in a lighthouse and walk the beach every morning." She shrugged again. "That's what Trish wanted, and Barney went along."

"I give that a year. Tops," Clint snickered. Imagining his brother happy while living in a lighthouse was like imagining himself settled in the suburbs with a white picket fence and two-point-three kids. It just didn't happen for men like him. "So, he's good?"

"Last I heard."

Clint nodded again. He was truly happy for his brother. The way Barney talked about Trish while they'd spent a month crisscrossing the United States had given Clint plenty to think about. His brother was happy, alive, and healthy. Even after being shot by Egghead, Barney had been irrepressible. At times, he got on Clint's nerves as the carefree cowboy came out from behind the mask of the federal agent, but Clint wouldn't trade the time he'd had with his brother.

Now, though, he had other questions. One thing he clearly remembered from the previous day—other than putting an eye patch on a very traditional-looking Santa—was Natasha's actions toward Steve. Clint had watched those two communicate nonverbally through much of the evening, even earning a brief dismissal from Stark. _Don't worry about them. They do that all the time._ At one point, most people said that about the Black Widow and Hawkeye. Seeing Natasha form that sort of relationship with another man tweaked Clint's pride even if he did admit he and Natasha had nothing but a very strong friendship. But this thing with Steve was different. When Natasha looked at Steve, there was a softness in her eyes that Clint never received. He suspected she didn't even know it was so obvious.

Shifting in his seat, Clint took another sip of coffee and grinned. It was time to tweak the tiger's tail. "So," he began conversationally, "what's going on with you and Rogers?"

He was unprepared for the glare he received in return.

oOo

Natasha stared at Clint in consternation. She wanted to throttle him for a moment but realized that he needed to find his footing. Of course he'd notice whatever was happening between her and Steve. Her partner was too observant to miss it. But he had wisely waited until they were alone to even bring up the subject, which meant Natasha needed to give him something. Since Clint usually knew when she was playing him, she opted for honesty. "I don't know."

Clint studied her. After a moment, he shrugged. "Seemed pretty obvious to me."

"Things happened." Natasha lifted one shoulder. "On our last mission together. It's just. . . .It's nothing right now."

Clint's eyes narrowed, and she could almost see the wheels turning. He'd pick up on her thoughts, as usual, and would realize that she didn't want to think about Steve right now. Not when her mind constantly jumped to how he looked at her, what his voice sounded like late at night when she couldn't sleep, and just how distracting he had become in the gym. In fact, Natasha had started timing her arrival in the gym right when Steve was leaving. If Steve picked up on it, he never said a word. Now that Clint was home, it would be easier for Natasha to cover herself in case Steve ever decided to ask why she avoided him.

And she did avoid him. Her reasons were varied, the foremost in her mind being her beliefs on love. As she'd told Loki, love was for children. Not children in the conventional sense of the word. She believed love was reserved for those people who, because of their sheltered lives, were like children in the face of the greater dangers and uglier jobs that needed doing—jobs that people like Clint and Natasha did on a daily basis. Love didn't belong in her life, so to find herself attracted to Steve in the first place had been disconcerting. Natasha took a mission the day after she realized that just to find some space and breathe. Steve hadn't questioned it because she had a commitment to SHIELD. By the time she returned, she had come to the conclusion that fighting against something was tantamount to making it grow. So, she stopped fighting. She allowed herself to admire his innocence, his strength, his. . .assets. She hoped that, by letting herself openly study him and learn his tendencies and quirks, she would find that she wasn't so attracted to him.

She'd been wrong. It had only complicated matters, making her reactions to Steve a lot more like a woman than an assassin. And that was a liability. If anyone found out she had feelings for Steve, they could use it against her. And Clint. . . .If he understood just how far Steve had managed to worm his way into Natasha's life, he'd kill himself to see that they were happy and together. For a master archer and assassin with such a horrible childhood, Clint could have the most idealistic point of view Natasha had ever seen.

Now, Clint frowned. "You okay?"

Natasha sighed as she realized she'd continued to stare at him. "No." She turned back to the paperwork spread out in front of her, deciding a change of topic needed to happen. "So, how are you feeling about going back to SHIELD?"

Clint blew out a frustrated breath and straightened again. He set his silver travel mug back on the coffee table, all signs of relaxation vanishing. His eyes shuttered, and he shook his head. "I'm not ready, Nat. Not yet. If I'm gonna get past all this, I've got to have help." He looked around the room. "Professional help."

She understood what he was saying. "I can get you set up with one of SHIELD's psychologists tomorrow. We can keep it quiet, make sure you're qualified to be in the field, use your leave-of-absence as the excuse for this time you're going through all these tests. The only people who have to know it's because of Loki are myself and Fury."

Clint nodded once. "You got a psychologist in mind?"

Natasha quickly ran through the list that SHIELD kept on payroll. "Dr. Erickson is good. She's relatively new and unfamiliar with your track record. Which could be a good thing. And she's got a lot of experience in severe PTSD. That's why we brought her aboard after. . . .Well, you know."

And he did know. He pressed his lips together, obviously trying to hold back the emotion that was too close to the surface as he thought about his attack on the Helicarrier. "You seen her?"

Natasha considered lying and saying she had, but she knew better. "No. I saw McNeil. He's also an option, though I know the two of you clashed the last time Fury forced you to see a shrink."

Clint sighed again and ran his hand over his mouth. "Yeah, not a good idea. Not right now." He peeked over at Natasha. "Erickson won't try to hypnotize me or medicate me, will she? Because I'm not letting anyone mess with my head."

"Just let her know those two treatments aren't an option."

Just as suddenly as his defensiveness appeared, it vanished. He visibly wilted back into the couch. "Am I doing the right thing?"

"By getting help?" Natasha waited until he nodded. "Clint, admitting you need help isn't wrong."

He swallowed a few times and finally chuckled. It wasn't happy, more like his way of coping. "Okay."

The conversation had ended, and Natasha knew better than to pursue anything else. When Clint put a stop to something, he usually became a brick wall if anyone wanted to discuss anything with him until he'd coped. She'd seen this happen multiple times over the years, usually when he'd been dealt a raw hand in the field. The most notable, outside of the latest incident with Loki, was when he was forced to take a shot that resulted in civilian casualties. No matter how many times Fury or Coulson reassured Clint that he couldn't have known about the explosives, that he wasn't responsible, Clint had blamed himself. It took a long time for him to get over what happened, and he still insisted on comprehensive recon of a building if there was even the remote possibility of booby traps. Thankfully, in their line of work, booby traps weren't all that common.

As Clint rose and headed back down the stairs, Natasha started gathering the SHIELD file. It was close to noon by now, but the weather outside had only intensified. The balcony already sported nearly a foot of snow, and it showed no signs of lightening any time soon. She stood and, without securing the file, moved to stand near the Christmas tree. No one would mess with her work, and she really didn't feel like plotting her next mission to Istanbul. Her face reflected in the window, showing the concern that she couldn't seem to shake.

If Clint had noticed this thing between her and Steve, what had everyone else seen? She wasn't too concerned with her fellow Avengers, but things could get complicated on the Helicarrier. She and Clint had deliberately allowed people to assume they were together just to keep eager young techs and scientists from constantly asking them out. If it came out that she and Steve had some indefinable attraction between them, some people on the Helicarrier would likely have apoplexy. After so long, the idea that she and Clint were a couple had become SHIELD legend.

Realizing that her thoughts would get her nowhere, Natasha turned away from the window and the snowy scene outside to collect her file and computer. She followed Clint down the stairs and paused at his door. Light guitar music drifted through the door, the fingering style unmistakable to her. She rarely forgot missions that went wrong, and the one where Clint learned to play guitar was forever imprinted in her mind. He'd been made and had his hands broken before she could get to him. He hadn't touched a guitar after that, so hearing one now surprised her.

Where had he found it? And what possessed him to buy one while on the road? It wasn't new. The case he'd brought in the night before had been battered by time and use. It looked right in Clint's hand, though, almost as if part of him. And the sound of the guitar. . . .Natasha closed her eyes and listened as he strummed a few more chords before returning to finger picking. The guitar was old, the tones warm and soothing. After the conversation she'd just had with Clint, she wasn't surprised he played. If he had somehow found comfort in an item that had once been a reminder of torture, she could not interrupt or even fault him for it.

She moved on down the hall when Clint missed a note and caused the guitar to squeak. Her partner was back, but he was still a little broken. Four months away, and he had found a measure of peace. The demons from his past had been put to rest, and it showed. Before his leave-of-absence, Clint would never have been as sociable as he had the previous evening. But that attitude had vanished when they talked about his next step. Clint admitting he needed psychological help was like Clint admitting a shot was too difficult. It just didn't happen. But, now, he'd done what Natasha always thought was impossible. It warmed her heart while simultaneously worrying her. Would her partner ever really be himself again?

Pushing those thoughts away, Natasha changed into workout clothing and headed for the gym. She passed Steve in the hall, only nodding to him and ignoring his brief smile of welcome. He would corner her later, but she needed to work through some things before facing him. And she needed to figure out how to keep Clint from matchmaking.

Somehow, she suspected she'd fail on both counts and honestly didn't care.

~TBC


	3. Presents Under The Tree

**Author's Note:** After a very long, crazy-busy weekend, I'm back. Just wanted to apologize for posting before replying to reviews. I'm running late on everything today as a result of too much to do and not enough time over the weekend.

I know Ch 2 seemed a bit slower than Ch 1, but there was a bit of information in there that was needed. It will come back later in the story. :)

As always, hope you enjoy! ~lg

oOo

The snow had not let up by morning, prompting Clint to sleep longer than average. He still rose before eight and dropped onto his floor to do his usual morning ritual. He'd started the practice after taking down Egghead. A short work-out, usually consisting of sit-ups and other light calisthenics, helped clear any lingering nightmares from his head and get his brain going for the day. Workout done, he padded into the kitchen and started coffee.

He had just finished dressing and was pouring his coffee when JARVIS spoke. "Agent Barton?"

Clint blinked and carefully set the coffee pot down, hiding just how startled he actually was. "Yes?"

"Mr. Stark has requested your presence in the Commons."

Clint supposed it was a lost cause to get the AI to refer to anyone by their first name, so he simply nodded. "I'll be up in a moment."

"Very good, Sir."

As the room fell silent, Clint let out a deep breath and wandered over to the window. The snow had piled up overnight, drifting deeper against vehicles. While it wasn't accompanied with blizzard-quality winds, it would still make getting out of the tower a bit difficult for the next several days. So much for his trip to the Helicarrier and a SHIELD psychologist.

Granted, he was more than willing to put that off for a few days. Just admitting he needed help had taken a lot out of him. Four months of his life and a few horrifying flashbacks, to be honest. He knew he couldn't go on without dealing with the psychological damage that Loki had done, but Clint had never been the trusting type. And talking to a psychologist the way he _needed_ to talk to one. . . .That meant trusting a stranger with a part of himself that he barely had the courage to face.

Shaking his head at nothing in particular, he finished making his coffee and carried it upstairs. He liked how easily he could come and go here, how he could be close to the team and still have his own space. It felt like. . . .He hesitated to use the word "family," but he couldn't think of anything else that fit quite as well. Besides, he had promised himself to be more open with the other Avengers and let them see a bit of himself. His propensity for burying everything had frustrated his brother, and he'd decided that he wouldn't make the Avengers feel like Barney had.

In the Commons, Stark had gathered everyone around the island in the kitchen. Natasha sat on one of the bar stools, staring blearily at the mug of steaming coffee in her hands. For a spy, she typically did not wake up quickly, at least not when she was at home. When on a mission, she usually snapped awake almost faster than he did. Clint met her eyes and sent an apologetic glance her way. Bruce sat next to her, his face calm and curious. Thor stood in the kitchen, munching on a Pop Tart, and Steve wandered in wearing a white t-shirt and tan pants. He looked as if he'd just come from the gym, and Clint buried a grin behind his cup as Natasha straightened and smoothed down her hair. She saw his eyes sparkling, though, and glared at him. Clint smirked back.

Stark, who had waited impatiently, frowned at the nonverbal communication. "Okay, do I need to break it up?" he asked, pointing from Clint to Natasha and back.

Now that the whole team, including Pepper, had gathered, Natasha glared. "No. Just get on with it."

"Touchy," Stark muttered. He huffed when she growled. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Didn't know you were sleeping."

Clint saw the signs of a very sleepy Black Widow coming apart all over Tony Stark and decided to intervene. "Stark," he said, his voice low, "might want to think about letting us know what the meeting's about."

"Right." Stark perked up again, his expression going from peevish to sheepish. "Since we're, uh, you know, doing this whole team thing, I thought we should. . . .Well. . . ." He shrugged. "I figured a Secret Santa might be fun."

Natasha's glare deepened. "You woke me up for a Secret Santa?"

Stark's eyes grew round. "I didn't know you were asleep. You're normally awake at the crack of dawn."

Seeing the empty bar stool next to Natasha, Clint decided to settle next to her. Natasha was rarely cranky in the morning, leading him to believe it had not been a good night for some reason. And those reasons varied, from feminine problems all the way up to a call from Fury. He nudged her shoulder without looking at her, telling her he would listen later.

Stark swallowed and cleared his throat. "Right. So. I thought we could do a Secret Santa. Y'know, draw names and buy gifts for that person."

Bruce, who had sat quietly until now, piped up. "What if we want to buy gifts for everyone?"

Behind Stark, Pepper got an "I told you so" look on her face. Stark glared at her momentarily and then shrugged. "I. . .I guess we could. But I thought. . .Y'know, it would be fun."

Clint buried another grin, this time at the crestfallen expression that Stark wore. He understood Stark's enthusiasm, though. Coming home for Christmas meant family and traditions that Clint didn't necessarily keep for himself. But decorating the Commons the other night had been fun. Seeing the looks on everyone's faces when he asked for leather while setting up the Santa and elves had been priceless, and he realized he could easily get swept away in the spirit of the season.

Thinking quickly, he met Stark's eyes. "How about a compromise? We draw names and buy one big gift for that person. Then, we buy for everyone else whatever we'd like to get. But each person makes a list as they put their names into the hat, and the Secret Santa is for us to get one item on that particular list."

Stark's face lit back up. "That's brilliant, Legolas." He smirked when Clint saluted him with his coffee cup. "So. What d'you think?"

For a beat in time, the kitchen was silent. Then, Natasha huffed. "Fine." She blinked slowly as every person turned to frown at her put-out voice. "I mean, it sounds like fun. I'm just. . . ."

"Tired, I know," Stark interrupted. He reached for a pad of paper and started passing around pens. "So, list your name and your wish list. Go big. Not just a new. . .coffee cup or something. This needs to be something that we can really put some thought into."

Clint accepted his pen and paper and wrote his name across the top in strong block letters before tapping the edge of the pen lightly on the counter. What should he put down? It's not like he had many wants that could be bought with money. His eyes slanted to Natasha's piece of paper, where she'd scribbled her name and the word "ballet" in her messy script. She could put calligraphy on the page if she wanted, but she rarely used it outside of her cover.

So, what did he really want? Clint stared at his paper and frowned. The only thing he could think of in recent days was music. And guitar books, which he planned to pick up on his own. Making a firm decision, he wrote down "CD player and CDs, NO country western." Then, satisfied, he folded it into a square and dropped it into the bowl that Pepper provided.

Once everyone had added their slips of paper, Stark mixed everything up and allowed Pepper to choose first. From there, each person chose a name and looked at what was written. The reactions were hilarious. Thor frowned deeply, confusion covering his features. He understood the secret nature of the exchange, though, and simply tucked the paper into his pocket. Bruce's face showed panic, and Steve's expression matched it. Stark grinned, and Pepper nodded. Natasha shrugged as if to say, "It could have been worse."

Finally, Clint looked at his paper. _Steve Rogers. REAL music! REAL books. No technology unless I already knew how to work it before I woke up!_ A list of Steve's favorites from back in the day followed. Clint grinned as he realized just how much fun this gift would be to find. He knew a guy in New York who specialized in vintage records, so the music itself would be easy to find. The toughest part would be the turntable. He doubted he'd be able to find one that wasn't a turntable/CD/cassette player combination, but he would do his best.

By the time Clint finished making plans for when the snow let up, most everyone else had drifted away. Steve had mentioned something about a shower, and Bruce claimed to have left something on in his lab. Clint didn't want to know what might be cooking in Bruce's lab and instead chose to focus on Natasha. He leaned against her arm. "You okay?"

She nodded slowly. "I really was sleeping."

"I know."

She sighed. "I'll apologize to Stark later." She paused while Clint grinned. "So, I should call Fury. I don't think we're going anywhere in this."

Clint turned from watching her to watching the weather. "Yeah, good idea." He dropped off his stool and checked his watch. "I'm gonna get started shopping. Some of this I should be able to find online."

Natasha nodded and then frowned. "Clint." She eyed him. "What's with the guitar?"

Clint, who had turned to answer her quick question, froze. He should have known she'd find out, but he hadn't planned on telling anyone quite so soon. "Uh. . . ."

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine."

He nodded. "It was Coulson's." He turned and stared at the Christmas tree. "Jennifer felt I should have it."

Natasha smiled at that. She headed for the stairs, pausing long enough to lay a warm hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you have it."

As she left him alone, Clint wandered over to the windows, Christmas shopping forgotten. Thinking about Coulson always left him pensive, but he knew this Christmas would be a bit harder. For years, the only people who bought gifts for him were Coulson and Natasha. And he usually spent hours scouring the world for vintage Captain America trading cards. Even though Steve had officially rejoined the land of the living, Phil had adored his trading cards. Finding the right one and then bartering was half the fun of Clint's holiday season, and he wouldn't have that this year.

Then, he blinked. For the last fifteen years, he'd bought a trading card for Coulson, and this year he would be buying a gift _for_ Captain America. The irony wasn't lost on him, and a smile bloomed on his face. Maybe he was getting Coulson a gift this year, just in a different sense. Coulson would have wanted Steve to feel comfortable in this modern age and accepting of his life now. By seeing that it happened that way for Steve, Clint would honor Coulson's wishes.

Still a bit morose but feeling somewhat placated, Clint headed downstairs for his rooms and his computer. He trusted Stark not to snoop, especially since he'd seemed so gung-ho about the Secret Santa. But he didn't want anyone, namely Natasha or Steve, sneaking up behind him. He always bought a gift for Natasha every Christmas, and this one would be no different. He grinned. Yes, he could definitely see himself enjoying Christmas this year. Somehow, it might even turn out to be one of the best he'd ever had.

oOo

Natasha might have been a grouch at the Secret Santa name exchange, but she soon forgot her irritation with Tony Stark. After all, it was past her usual wake-up call, and she rarely slept in. The weather, though, left her feeling drained for some reason, and she had decided to indulge her inner child. So, after calling Fury and learning that the storm was bad enough a Quinjet couldn't get through, she pulled the covers over her shoulder and dropped off to sleep. JARVIS had awakened her thirty minutes later, the AI's voice apologetic.

Now, though, Natasha stared at the slip of paper in her hand. _Thor. A gift for Jane._ That was all it said. Natasha didn't know Jane Foster well, but she knew that Thor's world revolved around making his lady the happiest woman alive. With a man like Thor who worshiped the ground she walked on, Jane's happiness was guaranteed. But what would make _Thor_ happy would be something that included Jane. And Natasha had just the thing.

Thor was the silent, gentle giant of the Avengers. Ever since his first visit to Earth, during which he learned a bit of humility, the Asgardian prince had worked to blend into his surroundings and to truly understand Earth's cultures. He traveled often, visiting Jane on a regular basis and using his hammer to see various parts of the world. Once, he approached Natasha and quietly asked for her recommendation on Russian food. He had visited Moscow during one of his excursions and wanted to take Jane to dinner there. While thinking about Moscow brought up a good dose of bad memories along with a few good ones, Natasha had gladly given him the name of a "hole in the wall," as Clint called it, that served the best _pelmeni_. Jane had later called Natasha to thank her, saying the trip was the most fun she'd had since Thor had first arrived on the planet.

Now that Christmas approached, Natasha decided to expand on that experience. Thor traveled, but he often bemoaned Jane's inability to get away from her job. And that was where Natasha came in. She settled at her firewalled computer, one that Stark agreed he would never hack, and started logging through layers of encryption. She had no doubt that Stark's promise would only be upheld when he learned that she responded just as poorly to having her computer hacked as she did to someone reading over her shoulder. But she hoped he had enough sense to keep this thing a true Secret Santa.

Once logged in, she spent the next several minutes checking her bank account—one from before SHIELD when she and Clint worked side-by-side. Both of them had those accounts, Clint's from his time with the Conglomerate and Natasha's from her time taking contracts. The money usually sat in a Swiss bank account and collected interest. But, every now and then, she would make use of it. And planning the perfect European tour for Asgard's crown prince and the love of his life seemed like a good enough reason to do so.

A knock on her door brought her out of her plans four hours later. The snow still fell outside, but Natasha had paused just long enough to start a fire. The warmth of the fire, the dim light from the window, and her private quarters meant she had fully relaxed for the first time in a very long time. She stood and straightened her shoulders, secretly not minding the intrusion but planning to give Stark grief if he'd just interrupted her yet again.

She needn't have worried. The irritated expression faded from her face the moment she saw Steve standing just outside her door. A smile blossomed, and she stepped back. "Come in."

He moved past her, his eyes roaming the room and blinking in surprise. Natasha expected it, and her smile widened when he shook his head. "This is incredible."

She shrugged. "That's what Stark's budget will do for a place."

The apartment was truly breathtaking. The ceiling had been painted a bright white to offset the cream color she'd put on the walls. Crown molding circled the ceiling and accented the walls two feet down from the ceiling. She'd had various architectural accents added, including a recessed spot for the bed and tastefully embossed wallpaper in lieu of pictures. Small pillars drew even more attention to the bed, along with two long mirrors. The furniture varied, some of it matching the walls but other pieces were dark charcoal, almost black. It provided a stark contrast to the pale coloring and made the headboard of the bed, painted the same dark charcoal color, "pop" even more. Her windows looked out over the same area of New York that Clint's did, and Natasha had built in some seating rather than leaving them open. With a few well-placed Persian rugs, color-coordinated sheets, comforter, and pillows, and some built-in bookcases, the room looked fit for any modern palace in the world.

Steve cleared his throat and looked a little embarrassed. "Um. . .Actually, I came by to ask for your help."

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "With the Secret Santa."

She smirked. "It's supposed to be secret."

"That's the thing." He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "What do I get?"

Natasha frowned at it, now understanding Steve's frustration. It simply had Pepper's name, nothing else. Her mind went blank. What did one buy for the woman who had everything? Well, Pepper might not have everything, but she had a boyfriend who could get her anything her heart desired. And she hadn't even listed an idea to help Steve along with his search. Natasha looked up at Steve with wide eyes. "I don't know."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah. I thought I'd ask because. . . .Well, I don't buy for dames, and I wouldn't have any idea what is proper or. . . ."

Natasha held up her hand, fending off the frustrated rant that was surely coming. Steve didn't necessarily rant often, but he became flustered enough to let a few things slip out that ultimately embarrassed him in the future. She found it endearing in a strange way. "Tell you what. I've got my gift already started, and it'll take just a little more wrap-up. I should get it finished today. So why don't I help you with yours?"

He blew out a sigh of relief. "Thank you!" he said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, reminding Natasha that he really was still quite young. She wasn't sure what that made her that she was so attracted to him, but his relief brought another smile to her face.

She glanced out the window. "As soon as the storm lifts, we'll go shopping."

"Okay." Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, looking around. An awkward silence followed, broken only by the wood shifting on the fire. Natasha found she didn't want him to leave, and he didn't look ready to go, either.

Figuring she could share her "inner sanctum," as Stark had once called it, with more than just Clint, she motioned toward the charcoal gray couches that sat in front of the fireplace. "Join me for some tea?"

Steve's face eased, and he nodded. "Sure. That'd be great." He eyed the fire. "Should I put another log in?"

"Sure." Natasha moved into her kitchenette with another grin. Very few people—men, in particular—saw this side of her. To most outside of those she fully trusted, she was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, a modern, trendy femme fatale who used her sexuality and charm to get what she wanted. With Clint, she transformed into a younger sister, someone who trusted him and, while able to hold her own against any opponent, would allow him to play the overprotective brother if he needed. Steve, however, was different. She wanted Steve to see the real Natasha, to understand that elegance wasn't just a part of her impressive arsenal, to know she really was a "girly girl," as Stark once called it. She wanted him to realize that she didn't use anything to get under his skin and would be as honest with him as possible.

With these thoughts roving through her head, Natasha carried the Russian tea to the table near the chair where Steve had settled. She carefully placed the silver tray and, after perching on the edge of her own seat, served tea as if in the most noble of castles. She smiled as she handed his teacup to him, picking a topic of conversation and flopping back in her chair. They spent the rest of the afternoon in front of that fireplace, wrapped in a discussion about books and their favorite authors, both modern and classical.

The weather had cleared enough the next day that Steve and Natasha were able to dig their way out and head to the mall. Life in New York City went on even if the Avengers could take time to settle in their opulent tower and watch things from a distance. Natasha drove one of Stark's SUVs, and Clint followed them out of the garage in his truck after asking if they wanted to meet up for lunch. He'd made an excuse of doing his own Christmas shopping before he had to head back to the Helicarrier, and Natasha decided not to even think about him. Somehow, this outing with Steve became a special thing to her, and she reminded herself that she could not become attracted to him. But she could enjoy some Christmas shopping with a friend.

At the mall, they headed inside together, both of them shaking their heads at the crowds. Natasha typically avoided this, but she decided that this year was different. Steve was awake, Thor lived on Earth, and they had defeated the Chitauri and Loki. In fact, much of New York seemed to realize they'd been given a new lease on life and had turned out in droves to make this the best Christmas ever. Natasha couldn't disagree with that sentiment. Even she had a new outlook on life after losing Coulson and nearly losing the entire world.

For the first hour, she circled the mall with Steve, drawing close to him out of necessity. When the eighth person jostled her and received a glare in response, Steve took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. Natasha blinked at their position and then decided it didn't matter. Steve stood taller than almost any other man there, and he managed to clear their path with his mere presence.

Christmas shopping became a game. They laughed at the idea of buying Stark an Iron Man action figure at one of the toy stores, and he waited patiently while she perused knives in a knife shop. They bought popcorn to munch on while they shopped and agreed to stop for Christmas cocoa before they left the mall. Steve somehow transformed the trip for her, and Natasha smiled more that afternoon than she had in recent days. She knew letting this thing between them grow was a bad idea, but she didn't want to stop it. For the first time in a very long time, she felt like a woman, not an assassin or SHIELD agent or anything else she might be. Somehow, Steve saw what she liked and accommodated her while doing his own shopping. He snagged several gifts on his list, including a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP Exclusif. Natasha smiled, recognizing the gift for Clint and the nod to Coulson.

They had just left the store with Clint's gift firmly under Steve's arm when Natasha saw him. He was just a face in the crowd, another man intent on buying his gifts and heading home. But, to Natasha, he was danger. She froze in the middle of the aisle, people surging all around her, as her heart pounded in her chest and blood rushed to her head. A raging headache took over, and she had to force herself to breathe.

She _knew_ that face! But every time she tried to place it, the name slipped away in a haze that was the absence of her memories.

Steve touched her arm. "Natasha?"

She wrenched her head to stare at him, seeing the concern on his face and the odd looks they were receiving from a few curious shoppers. Pressing her lips together, Natasha turned in a complete circle. The man had vanished. But it didn't matter. "Steve?"

"I'm right here."

"We need to go." She grabbed his hand and started dragging him in the direction of the nearest exit—or she hoped it was the nearest exit. Glancing over her shoulder, she cursed her red hair as it bounced around her face. On her way past a booth in the center of the mall, she grabbed a black knit beret and pulled it over her head. Steve looked about ready to have apoplexy, and Natasha made a mental note to get someone back here to pay for the hat. But it covered her hair, and that was all that mattered right then.

Steve didn't question her, just let her lead him through the mall and outside a door on the opposite side of the building from where they'd entered. There were plenty of other people in the parking lot, and the snow still fell. He finally tugged on her hand. "Hey, want to tell me what's wrong?"

Natasha stared into his eyes. "I saw him! And I _know_ he saw me. We've got to get out of here. Get back to the tower and make sure we aren't followed."

"Okay, slow down." Steve looped their bags over his arms so he could take her by her shoulders. "_Who_ saw you?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide. Fear coursed through her body, causing her hands to shake uncomfortably. She breathed the icy air in and out of her lungs, knowing she'd hyperventilate if she wasn't careful. But she forced the words out anyway. Steve needed to know, and she wished she could explain the cause of her terror. "I don't know!"

~TBC


	4. In My Dreams

**Author's Note:** Wow! Thank you for your response to the last chapter! :)

**Amy:** The Secret Santa wasn't anything planned. But it was just so Stark-like that I couldn't resist. Answers will be coming soon. :D

**Spence:** Thank you for reading! And I'm glad you're enjoying the story! I am writing...LOL! As quickly as my schedule will allow. I hope to start daily postings a week from today, but we're sticking with every other day for now.

As always, hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

oOo

Clint smirked as he followed Steve and Natasha from the parking garage of Stark Tower. He'd seen Natasha's glare when he invited himself along on their trip, but he had no intention of sticking with them. They'd planned to visit the mall and formally introduce Steve to the modern traditions of Christmas shopping when Clint intended to visit a place closer to Steve's memories. Joe's Collectibles was a shop that almost bled vintage, and Clint loved every inch of it. Coulson had introduced Clint and Joe, and the two men tended to be polar opposites. They argued, bickered, and in general made one another laugh.

Today, Joe's glowed from inside with a warm, golden light. Clint parked his truck where the snow had already been cleared and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep his fingers warm. He wore his fingerless gloves, and he had his thick jacket zipped up to his neck. It left him very little ability to move, but he doubted he'd have to defend himself in here. A bell over the door jangled when he walked inside, and the scent of dust and old things permeated the building. A turntable played a Frank Sinatra Christmas album, and a Christmas tree sparkled in the front window. The counter had a display of everything from trading cards to a few comic books and records. . .lots of records. The walls were covered in posters from a bygone era, and Clint swallowed. He was unprepared for the wave of sadness that swept over him just by walking into the building, and he fought his instinct to run.

A big man appeared from behind a curtained door. "Well, well, well." Joe Malone grinned from his spot. "If it ain't the agent. Haven't seen you in a while."

Clint met the man's eyes. "Been out of town for a bit." He shrugged. "Vacation."

Joe's eyebrows rose. "You? Take a vacation?"

"It happens." Clint stepped further into the shop. "You got anything from the '40s? Got a friend who's a fan, and I thought I'd pick up a few things."

"Yeah. Back in the corner." Joe pointed to the corner on Clint's right. "You ever talk Coulson? Haven't seen him in a while."

Clint, who had been headed for the corner Joe had indicated, froze in place. He supposed he should have expected the question, but it still took him by surprise. All the Avengers knew of Coulson's death, and the classified nature of their work with SHIELD likely meant a lot of Coulson's contacts hadn't heard he'd been killed. Joe was living proof. Swallowing yet again, Clint turned in place and stared at Joe. "He's dead," he said softly. "KIA about six months ago."

Joe cringed. "Oh, man!"

Clint gave up even thinking about shopping at the moment and moved to the counter. Leaning both elbows on it, he ran his hands over his face. "Really shook up a lot of people. Including me."

"Yeah, you two were always close." Joe hesitated and then reached for something behind the counter. "I asked 'cause I found this several weeks ago and picked it up. One of you two always comes in around this time of year, and I figured. . . ." He blinked rapidly. "Anyway, here it is."

Clint picked up the clear plastic box, studying the trading card inside. Captain America—Steve Rogers—wore his uniform from the '40s, including that silly shield, and jauntily saluted the camera in front of a dark red background. The colors on the card were remarkably preserved, the edges hardly looked handled. Someone had kept this thing in pristine condition.

For a moment, Clint fought to breathe. He swallowed again, several times, as he tried to push aside his emotions. But he failed as he stared at the trading card. Right after Coulson's death, Fury had stained the man's cards with his blood, using them to motivate Steve and Stark. Clint still hadn't forgiven Fury for that, but he understood why SHIELD's director felt the need. To have one of those cards—the one most destroyed—given back to him. . . .He set the plastic box on the counter. "I'll take it."

Joe narrowed his eyes. "No offer?"

Clint shook his head, willing to forgo his Christmas tradition of haggling prices with Joe just for the fun of it. "Whatever you want, I'll take it. Coulson's copy of this one was. . .destroyed. He had them on him when he was killed."

Joe winced and pulled the card back to him. "I'll box it up."

"Thanks, Joe." Clint left the counter and moved to the corner that Joe had previously indicated. His fingers flipped through the albums, but his eyes didn't focus on any of the names. He had dealt with Coulson's death while in New Mexico, but he had been unprepared for the lingering sadness. Talking with Natasha about Coulson's work wasn't the same. This wasn't a job, a part of their lives that he could compartmentalize. Back when he first joined SHIELD, Coulson introduced him to Joe and this shop. The two men often came in around Christmas time to browse the records, talk, and haggle over the price of trading cards. Joe supplied several collectors in the city with various cards, and Clint usually managed to get to the card Coulson wanted before Coulson got there. It was no end of frustration for the older SHIELD agent and eventually became a joke. _Barton got here first, didn't he?_ Clint grinned as he remembered a conversation he'd overheard between Joe and Coulson. Joe's reply—_Don't have a clue what you're talkin' about, Phil—_would stay with Clint until he died. On that particular day, he'd been hiding behind the curtain because Coulson almost caught him buying the card two days before Christmas.

The memory did wonders for Clint's spirits. He still felt the residual sadness of Coulson's absence, but he was able to focus on something more than his part in Coulson's death. That particular year, Clint had given Coulson the trading card from Russia. He'd been sent to Moscow on Christmas Eve, so Natasha had delivered it while Clint watched via live webcam. It had completed Phil's set, and Clint had never seen the man so ecstatic.

_Speaking of making a man happy. . . ._ Clint dragged his mind from the past and began focusing on his shopping list. Steve had listed most of the big names from the '40s: Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Benny Goodman, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, and Louis Armstrong. Clint had listened to some of their music, primarily around the holidays, and now read the tracks listed on the records. After choosing a mix of the people Steve mentioned, he headed back for the counter where Joe waited somberly. The shopkeeper rang up his purchases and added the trading card to the total, causing Clint's eyebrows to rise. Joe had taken a substantial sum off of this particular card. When he saw Clint's expression, he shrugged. "In memory," he said softly.

Just a few minutes later, Clint stepped back outside, into the biting cold, with his Christmas shopping completed for the day. He'd thought about stopping at several other shops, but the idea of diminishing Joe's gift by joining the craziness of a nearby mall didn't appeal. Instead, he climbed into his truck and drove toward the mall where Steve and Natasha were shopping. He'd need to wrap the records, but the bright yellow sack that Joe had used would suffice for now. Even if the pair of them did see the bag, it didn't have Joe's name on it.

At the mall, he drove until he found the SUV Steve and Natasha had taken. He had made it a point to memorize the license plate and had swiped the spare keys from the rack where Stark hung all of the vehicle keys. Unlocking the SUV, Clint placed the bag under one of the seats, right where it wouldn't be seen from the front, and then climbed back into his now-warm truck to find a parking space.

He found Steve and Natasha first. They were on the exact opposite side of the mall from where they'd parked. Natasha wore a black beret over her red hair, which actually matched the stylish black wool coat she wore. Steve looked the same as ever, if a little more bundled up. He was loaded down with bags from various shops in the mall, but that wasn't what made Clint sit up a little straighter. He instinctively glanced around, noting the position of almost every person braving the snow and ice to do some shopping. Natasha had Steve by the hand and was dragging him down the road in a very familiar, very disconcerting way. Steve stopped her and took her by her shoulders, prompting a short conversation that ended with the Black Widow almost in tears.

Clint jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, coming to a sliding halt beside the pair. He vaulted out of the truck toward them. "What happened?"

Steve seemed a bit perturbed, whether by the situation or by the interruption Clint wasn't sure. "I don't know," he admitted.

Clint turned to his partner. "Nat?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide and breathing erratic. "Clint, I saw him. I don't know who, so don't ask. But. . . ." She gave him a meaningful look. "I think he's from before."

That changed everything. Clint pointed at his truck. "Get in."

Natasha didn't question him. She dove for the truck, gladly squeezing into the spot between Clint and Steve, piling the bags on her lap. Clint threw his truck in gear and easily found the SUV. He parked a few spaces away and tugged the spare keys from his pocket. "I'll drive."

"Now, wait. . . ." Steve held up a hand in protest as Natasha beelined for the SUV.

Clint rounded on him. "You know how to evade someone and/or lose a tail in this city in weather like this driving a vehicle like that?" he asked in a low voice while pointing at the SUV.

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly. "No."

"Then I'm driving." Clint didn't wait for an answer but climbed right into the SUV. Natasha had already buckled herself into the back seat, knowing that the windows were tinted a bit darker back there. Clint met her eyes in the rear view and saw the genuine fear in them as he started the SUV. He'd come back for his truck later. Right now, he needed to get Natasha someplace safe. "Where to?"

She shifted to make room for Steve, who joined her in the backseat. "Tower."

Clint drove out of the parking lot, careful not to hit anyone but otherwise focused on getting home. A few vehicles followed him, but they turned in other directions or didn't follow his circuitous route. He glanced in the mirror again, this time to check on Natasha, and found her curled into Steve's side. That shook him. In the years he'd known the Black Widow, he'd only seen her this emotional one time. She'd come face-to-face with a target from her past, "from before," as she referred to it. The look of fear on her face was the same. If someone from Natasha's past had shown up in New York, it could mean very bad things for everyone.

Clint glared out the front window as he took Natasha and Steve back to Stark Tower. Whatever had happened at the mall, it had triggered Natasha's latent memories. And that meant something bad was about to happen.

oOo

Steve followed Barton and Natasha out of the elevator and into the Commons area. He was no more enlightened now as he'd been when Natasha suddenly freaked out. Relegated to carrying their gifts, he simply tagged along and hoped someone would inform him why a woman he thought he knew suddenly panicked in a crowded mall. Had he misjudged her by thinking she could handle a large crowd? Or was it this face she claimed she'd seen?

Stark, Banner, Thor, and Pepper met them, all wearing similar looks of concern. Stark spoke first. "What happened?"

Barton didn't even blink. "Nat saw a face. Someone she recognized." He paused. "JARVIS warn you?"

Stark nodded before turning to Natasha. "What kind of face?"

"I don't know." Now that she was home and safe, she pulled the beret she'd stolen from her head and wandered over to the couch.

Stark frowned. "Well, if you can't give us a reason, why the panic?"

Steve blinked. "Stark! You ever know the woman to panic?"

"No, and that's what worries me," Stark replied. He glanced between those gathered. "She doesn't talk about anything in her past. How do we know this is even worth noting?"

Barton glared at the billionaire. "It's worth it." He left the conversation and headed for the area of the Commons where Natasha had taken refuge.

Stark held out a hand, frustrated. "That's what I mean. No information, nothing. Just, 'We need to be worried.' Why not tell us _why_ we need to be worried."

For the next several moments, Stark fussed with Banner and Pepper, all of whom urged him to calm down. He never raised his voice, but he did make some compelling points. As he began to grow tired of hearing the billionaire repeat the same points over again, Steve glanced over to where Natasha sat—and he froze.

Natasha had curled into a corner of the couch, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. She stared at a spot about a foot from her face and trembled slightly. On the opposite end of the couch, Barton had perched on the edge and leaned his elbows on his knees. He sat patiently, watching Natasha and giving her time to react. There was a familiarity about Barton's actions that meant he'd done this before and knew the right course of action.

Leaving Stark to bicker behind him, Steve carefully moved across the room to join the pair. Barton's eyes rolled in his direction, but he didn't do so much as glare when Steve sat in a chair across from Natasha. He just went back to watching her and waiting. The patience Barton exhibited shamed Steve. He was this group's unofficial leader, and he'd been too busy trying to get information from Natasha that he hadn't seen just how shaken she really was. Something—or someone—had so deeply spooked her that she couldn't even respond at the moment.

Finally, after Stark fell silent, she blinked slowly. At that moment, Barton spoke. "Tasha? Talk to me. What happened?" His voice was soft, almost a whisper. It had years of experience behind it and carried the weight of a man who knew things about Natasha Romanoff that no other person present had been privileged to know.

She shook her head slowly. "I don't know." Her eyes moved to Barton's and then locked with Steve's. "We were leaving one of the stores in the mall when I saw _him_." She blinked several more times. "I can't say _who_ he is or _why_ I know him. But I do! There's this. . .this. . . .Fear! It's so deep it's almost an instinct. Every part of me shouted for us to get out of there."

Barton reached over and took her hand, holding tight while she clung to him. He didn't draw her into a hug like Steve would have done or try to appease her. He simply rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "Okay." Then, he turned to the group watching. "Stark, how tied into local law enforcement and airports are you?"

Behind Steve, the billionaire scoffed. "Please. I can get you anything you need to know."

"Good." Barton nodded. "I need you to find out if anyone has come into New York who's on any sort of international watch list or wanted list. I'm not talking drug dealers. I'm talking the 'so classified I shouldn't know about them' lists. Pay special attention to anyone who came in from Russia."

"Russia?" Stark asked. Then, he huffed when Barton glared. "Right. Give me a couple hours."

Never one to sit on his hands, Steve looked at Barton. "What about the rest of us?"

Barton watched both Stark and Banner leave the Commons. "Until we know more, Cap, there's not much we can do." He stood and tugged Natasha to her feet. She let him lead her down the stairs, leaving Steve, Thor, and Pepper with nothing to do.

Steve stared helplessly at the stairs. He wanted to find this guy, to learn why he caused such an extreme reaction in Natasha. But he also wanted to go to her, to hold her and keep her safe. That realization dragged him to his feet, and he wandered over to the windows to look out. The snow was settling back over New York again, softening everything with its haze and making it difficult to see. It also created shadows, and those shadows were filled with men who might want Natasha dead. That didn't sit well, and he blew out a deep breath.

After waking in this modern world, Steve had grieved for Peggy and for what he'd lost. He'd finally begun to settle, to create those bonds with the Avengers that he had lost when he crashed the plane. He still felt behind the curve and craved the familiarity of home. But this was home. During that mission with Natasha while Barton had been away, Steve had seen what he could share with the Avengers as a whole—and with Natasha in particular. Somehow, he had managed to break through her outer shell, and she had responded in kind. She wasn't just a friend, he knew, and he realized he walked on dangerous ground with her. He had once known a woman like Natasha, a woman who intrigued him and seemed so far out of his league that he had despaired of even turning her head. And he'd lost her. He didn't want to do the same with Natasha Romanoff.

But what had this new face created? He honestly had not recognized her for a moment while she sat on the couch. The trembling, pale woman did not line up with the fearless Black Widow who had fought at his side during the Chitauri invasion. This wasn't the Natasha that he'd seen watching Barney Barton and Trish Starr be reunited. This was a broken woman, one that could not even identify her fears, much less face them. And it actually frightened him.

oOo

Her past haunted her, like a siren song from beyond the mists that constantly pulled her toward its dark pit of despair. Natasha Romanoff had long believed that she had no right to find happiness in life. Her past was too morbid, too drenched in red that could never be wiped out. Every day, she woke with the realization that, while she was doing good _now_, all the good in the world could not remove the scarlet letter from her shoulder. She had done things worse than Nathaniel Hawthorne's character in his classic novel, however; she had killed innocents with no other cause than someone decided they must die. For years, Natasha carried that scarlet letter—in the shape of an "M"—and even wore it proudly. Clint Barton's arrival in her life allowed her to begin to remove it, though it still remained outlined and ever present.

She had forgotten about it for a short while today. While shopping with Steve, she had allowed herself to be a normal woman and not the Black Widow. Oh, she said she remembered that whatever she felt for Steve could never happen. But she hadn't believed it—not deep down where that belief needed to become reality. Walking out of the store and seeing that face had snapped her firmly into the present and then taken her to the deep recesses of herself that she could no longer access.

Clint followed her into her rooms, his hand now on her shoulder. He gave her a gentle nudge toward the bathroom. "Shower."

She turned. "I'm fine."

He met her eyes. "You're still shaking, and your skin feels like ice. Go take a shower and warm up. I'll be here when you get out."

Natasha knew it was pointless to argue with him, and she honestly didn't want him to leave. He knew exactly what to do to help her calm down and just how she made her favorite tea. But something inside felt a little sad. While having Clint around was nice, she didn't want him this time. She wanted someone else, someone out of reach.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Natasha gathered up her clothes and then climbed into as hot a shower as she could handle. Her mind whirled, that face so familiar and yet distant. It was like remembering someone from the past, someone she vaguely recognized from a twisted family reunion. That cousin she danced with one time and her mom thought she made such an impression on. Only, she could not truly recall her mother, and she'd never had cousins. Nor had she been to a family reunion. Those things weren't for people like Natasha or Clint.

Slapping the water off when the room turned foggy, Natasha dried and dressed. In the main room of her quarters, she found Clint sitting next to a fire, staring into the flames and lost in thought. He snapped to the present when she joined him and rose to pour some tea. She accepted the cup, wrapping her fingers around it. "I'm sorry."

He frowned. "Why?"

"You were having a good time."

"Not really." He met her eyes. "I went to see Joe."

That bit of news caused the rock in her stomach to harden. "How's he doing?"

Clint clenched his jaw. "He had a card. In a protective box and mint condition."

Natasha leaned forward and touched Clint's hand. "Clint. . . ."

He nodded. "I know. It's not my fault. And I'm starting to understand that. But. . . ." He shook his head. "I think the constant, sharp grief was better than this. Better than forgetting for a while."

Natasha didn't have an answer, and she refused to force a conversation. Clint sat with her while she finished her tea and, when she looked steady, excused himself. As the silence closed around her, she looked back at the fading fire. Why now? Why did this face show up at this moment? Was someone after her? Was he family? A friend from before. . .from a time she couldn't remember? Or was this deeper, more primal? The questions swirled, and she couldn't answer a single one.

oOo

Steve knocked on the door, grateful that Stark had seen fit to put in regular doors rather than those electronic contraptions that slid open and closed. A muffled "It's open" came from the other side, and he pushed through. He had never been in Agent Barton's personal quarters before, and he was surprised to see the man in his kitchen. Barton had flung a towel over his shoulder and stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand as he blinked at Steve. "Do somethin' for you, Cap?"

Steve sheepishly pushed his hands into his pockets. "How's Agent Romanoff?"

Barton eyed him as he went back to sauteing vegetables. "She's okay for now. Not gonna freak out on us or anything."

"That's not what I'm asking." Steve frowned. "Why would she freak out?"

Barton's head popped back up. "How much do you know about Nat's past?"

Steve shrugged. "Only what she's told me. Worked freelance for a while before you recruited her into SHIELD. She also said you two were friends before SHIELD."

"Huh." Barton studied him before shaking his head. His forehead wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows. "Well, as much as I would like to tell you some things, it's best if it comes from her. Nat doesn't trust easily. That she's let you as close as she has means something."

"That's just it." Steve took a few more steps into the room and decided to broach the subject that had bugged him for the better part of an hour now. He hadn't thought much about it until today, until seeing just how Barton and Natasha related to each other. "I'm not steppin' between the two of you, am I?"

Barton's head snapped up, and genuine shock covered the man's face. "You think Tasha and I. . .?" He motioned from himself to the pot and back with the wooden spoon. A few seconds later, he switched off the burner with a quick flick of his wrist and moved the pan to a cool spot on the stove. "Cap, what Nat and I are to each other is _not_ romantic." He tipped his head to the side slightly. "Used to be, but not anymore."

"Because of Loki?"

Barton shook his head again. "Because of me. Because of her. Because of the job." He pressed his lips together in an expression similar to a shrug. "Some people make better friends than lovers. That's Nat and me. What we had was before SHIELD and before you ever woke up. I just happen to know how she copes and what to do when she goes to ground."

"Is that what happened today?" Steve asked. "She went to ground?"

"No." Barton met his gaze head-on. "What happened today is she saw something that scared her. And if it scared _her_, then _we_ need to be worried."

Steve nodded, though he wasn't quite certain what Barton meant. Yes, he was worried about Natasha. But did the things that frightened one woman—even a woman as fearless as the Black Widow—really need to be handled with such concern? Or was Barton overreacting because of some classified SHIELD job? Who was this face that Natasha saw? He frowned. "Anything I can do to help?"

Barton went back to his vegetables. "Be there when she wants to talk." He glanced up. "You're an artist, right?" When Steve nodded, he continued, "Maybe offer to sketch the face. You know, like the cops do. Then we can run it through facial recognition on the Helicarrier and try to identify this guy."

"Good idea."

Barton shrugged. "It's all I've got." He checked a second pot on the stove. "You had lunch yet?"

Steve blinked, surprised at the change in subject. "Uh, no. We were planning to go out, remember?"

Barton grinned slightly. "Too bad that didn't work out. Had this wonderful Thai place I wanted to take you." He pulled the second pot off the burner and carried it to the sink, where he dumped some pasta in the strainer. "It's not that great, but you're welcome to join me."

Steve watched the SHIELD agent finish draining the pasta and adding it back to the pot and then tossing the vegetables into it with some olive oil and spices. While Barton finished prepping the meal, he wandered around the room. It looked a lot like he'd imagined Barton's personal areas to look: spartan with the same high ceilings as his and Natasha's rooms, the walls a pale, calming tan, the furniture sleek and traditional without being extravagant. But the absence of personal items drew Steve's attention more than what was there. There were no pictures of friends or family sitting around. The tops of the bedside tables, the end tables, and the dresser were bare save for lamps, the bed looked neat but used. A guitar, well-used and glowing, leaned against the foot of the bed. However, on the wall above the small dining table, Barton had hung a wooden weapons rack. The rack held several bows, from the one he'd used during the fight with the Chitauri all the way to an old wood recurve that was worn smooth by age.

Steve studied that bow, drawn to the story. Men like Barton didn't keep mementos from the past. So that bow had to mean something. He turned to find Barton putting two plates full of pasta on the table. "What's with this one?"

Barton eyed the bow. "That?" He shrugged. "That's what I learned to shoot on. How I became The Amazing Hawkeye."

Steve raised his eyebrow as he accepted the tall glass of iced tea Barton offered and set it beside his plate. "The Amazing Hawkeye?"

Barton shrugged. "World's best marksman. Least, that's what the circus said," he said as he took his first bite of food.

Steve stared for a long moment before he spotted the glint of mischief in Barton's eyes. He shook his head. "You had me going there for a moment. I thought. . . ." His voice trailed off as Barton gave him a serious frown. "You grew up in the _circus_?"

For the first time since he'd met the man, Barton let out a genuine chuckle. "Yeah, Cap. Grew up in the circus." He propped his elbows on the table. "I can even juggle, too."

Steve wisely didn't comment and ate his lunch, hoping this lightheartedness would continue into the coming days as they all helped Natasha through whatever she had seen that afternoon.

~TBC


	5. Find Me

**Author's Note:** So, I'm posting rather early today. When the end of the story comes around to being written, I usually have a flurry where I'll write the last 5-7 chapters in one sitting. This story's going to be 13 chapters, and I'm halfway through Ch 10 already! Yay! So, there should be no delay in posting from now on.

Quick announcement: As of Monday, December 17th, there will be daily updates on this story save for Sunday until Christmas!

**Guest:** I thought about putting Clint and Natasha together, but Clint resisted the idea. Told me in no uncertain terms that he's not ready for a relationship right now. That he needs to get through the holiday season. Sorry to disappoint on that score, but I do hope you're enjoying the story!

**jessica:** Thank you! The record store scene is one of my favorites, too!

Hope everyone enjoys this chapter! ~lg

oOo

Natasha found Steve in the gym early the next morning. For a moment, she paused by the door to watch as he pounded on a punching bag. Back when he'd first woke up and shortly after the fight for Manhattan, he'd used the punching bags to take out anger, frustration, and grief. Now, she suspected it was more of a habit than anything. Though, when he turned slightly, she saw genuine irritation on his features. She wanted to smooth that irritation away and then frowned at her thoughts. She had no business trying to smooth anything away, least of all from his face.

Steve didn't tear punching bags off of their chains nearly as often as he once did. He had learned the right amount of force to put into a punch to keep the bag swaying but not compromise the gear holding it up. That, and Stark had specially designed these bags. Still, he was somewhat breathless when he caught the bag and let his head rest against it. Natasha thought he looked tired.

Straightening and scuffing her feet so he'd know she was there, she smiled when he blinked at her. "Long night?"

"You have no idea." Steve walked over to the gym bag he'd brought with him and began unwrapping his hands. His white t-shirt clung to his shoulders, and his tan pants looked comfortable. "How are you?"

Natasha shrugged. "That's why I'm here." She sat down on a bench behind him. "I wanted to apologize for yesterday."

He glanced up. "Nothing to apologize for." He shrugged as he finished with his hands and shoved the wraps into his gym bag. "We all have things that. . .what's the term Barton used? Freak us out?"

Natasha chuckled at the soldier from the 1940s using a modern term like "freak out." She tipped her head to one side. "Still, I went a little crazy, and. . . ." She came to a halt with a sigh. She had gone more than a little crazy. While her time with Clint the day before had helped calm her nerves, she had not rested since coming back to the tower. She _knew_ she was safe here, and she trusted every member of the Avengers. But she couldn't shake the irrational fear that the face had stirred. "I wish I could explain. It was just. . .visceral. Instinct. I saw a face, and I ran."

Steve moved to her side and sat beside her, his arm brushing her shoulder much like Clint's did. This time was different, however. This time, it meant more than just her partner trying to nudge her into talking. Steve stared at his hands. "Do you know how many times I think I see someone I used to know and then realize it wasn't them?" He glanced at her. "I'm not saying that's what happened. What I'm saying is that I know how that. . .that disconnect feels. For a second, I think I'm seeing Bucky or one of the Howling Commandos, and it turns out to be some hot dog vendor who just wants to make a buck. When it happens, I end up some place quiet, sketching, trying to get my head straight just so I can keep living." He paused for a moment. "Give yourself time, Natasha. You'll remember who he is."

"No, I won't." She leaned into his shoulder, relishing the way he gave her a startled, almost shy, glance. But this conversation wasn't for flirting or figuring out what she was going to do about her feelings for Steve. She needed that closeness at the moment. "Some things in my past. . . ." She shook her head. "I honestly don't even know when my birthday is. I mean, I have one, and I celebrate it—usually with Clint and Coulson. But that's the day I became the Black Widow. There's this whole part of me that's just. . .gone." She turned to meet his eyes. "What they did to me. . . .They took the real me and made me into what you know. They played with my mind until I only remember certain things. The last twenty years or so have been mixed up between trying to figure out who I am and live without the Red Room finding me. Yesterday, when I saw that face, I felt like I was suddenly back there."

Steve held her gaze, his jaw clenching as she talked. "You're Natasha Romanoff," he said firmly. "That's all I need to know."

Natasha blew out a frustrated breath and stood, pacing across the room. "Do you know what it's like to _not_ know who your parents are? To think you were once something you loved only to find out they're false memories? Do you have _any_ idea how it feels to have loved someone and then have them taken away because they didn't serve the organization's needs?" She turned to eye Steve, her voice angry but not raised. He sat and waited patiently, obviously taking cues from Clint on how to handle her. It warmed her heart that he cared enough to do so and yet frustrated her that he just didn't react. "Sorry. I guess I needed to get that out."

Steve finally stood and walked over to her, taking her shoulders like he had the day before. Yesterday's actions, though, were out of sincere concern and borderline desperation as he tried to get her to tell him what had happened. Today, his hands were warm and gentle on her shoulders, his eyes soft. "You're Natasha Romanoff," he said again. When she started to speak, he frowned in that expressive way of his. "What I mean is, you're who you are because of what you went through in the past. You have become your own person, someone who can trust her memories of the last twenty years. _That's_ the Natasha Romanoff I know and trust. And that's the woman you _are_, not what they made you."

She stared at him for a long moment, torn between dissolving into tears in his arms and pounding him to a pulp. The anger that made her want to do that faded quickly as she realized that what he'd seen all these months that Clint had been away wasn't the fearless, seductive assassin. He'd been looking at _her_, seeing _her_, listening to what _she_ wanted and what _she_ thought. She wasn't able to stop the tears that welled up in her eyes and turned to walk away from him. Unlike with Loki, when she'd turned her back to cover the fact she wasn't really crying, she used shaking hands to wipe the tears away. A sniffle escaped, though, and sounded nothing like the quiet sobbing she'd used on Loki. This was real. When the Black Widow cried, it was usually silent, with tears that scalded her cheeks. And Steve's words brought her to that point easier than anything else had in the past. _I must be tired,_ she thought. Then, she pushed the thought away. It didn't matter if she was tired or not. What mattered is that someone saw under the Black Widow, beneath the SHIELD agent, behind the assassin, and saw the woman who just wanted. . . .

What did she want? To be loved? Natasha swiped at another tear, cursing the tremble in her hands as she tried to stem the tide. Love didn't belong in her life. It made her weak and had already nearly destroyed her when her husband "died." She had grieved deeply only to discover that the Red Room had taken him to make him into something else. When she learned that, she escaped and went freelance, eventually meeting Clint.

Still, she could not deny the warmth that spread through her when Steve didn't crowd her or try to comfort her. He simply moved around in the background, giving her space but a comforting presence should she want to talk. That made him even more special. Both Steve and Clint, though filling different roles in her life, understood that she sometimes needed time to think.

Natasha took a few deep breaths and squared her shoulders. When she thought she could speak without her voice breaking, she looked at Steve, not hiding the evidence of genuine tears on her face. "Clint says you'd be willing to draw a sketch of the face I saw."

Steve, who had been gathering up the equipment he'd left scattered on the bench from his workout, straightened. "He's right."

She shrugged. "Do you mind doing one this morning? I've got to take Clint to the Helicarrier later for. . .stuff, and. . . ."

Steve held up a hand to stop her explanation. "I'd be happy to." He frowned down at himself. "Just let me clean up a bit."

Natasha smiled at that. "I'll have coffee ready." She left the room before he could protest.

With exhaustion dogging each of her steps, Natasha plodded back to her quarters and started the coffee she'd promised. She preferred tea, but Steve was the quintessential American man. And most American men liked their coffee. While it brewed, she puttered around the kitchen, pulling out some cookies to put on a tray and fixing a few other snacks. All the while, her mind constantly circled back to the face she'd seen. It gave her a headache just thinking about it, but she could not understand why it caused such fear in her. She had stared at the ceiling most of the night, fighting the urge to run, to go to ground and protect those she called friends. Like she'd told Steve, this wasn't a rational urge. This face had something to do with her past, and she alternately wanted to learn what that was and forget the whole thing happened. She wanted her life back. But, in one moment, that had changed.

Steve knocked on the door just as she finished pouring the coffee into an insulated carafe. Natasha let him in, smiling at the sketch pad and pencils he carried in one hand. He smiled at her as she finished putting the tray together and carried it to the coffee table. Most people saw Natasha as very practical, and she was. She used to be Russian. But she was also a woman, and having people like Steve and Clint around who understood that she liked pretty things. . . .It meant more than she could say.

Steve perched on the edge of the couch, thanking her for coffee and fixing a cup while she made her own snack. Then, for the next several hours, he sketched while she talked. Somewhere along the way, Natasha moved from sitting next to him with several inches between them to propping her chin on his shoulder and watching as he drew, his face mere inches from her own. The closeness was comforting in a way, and he didn't seem to mind. For just this moment, as he sketched the nightmare from her past, she decided to ignore the voice in her mind that told her this was a bad idea. When she came through this thing, she'd find the distance she needed. But, for now, she would enjoy Steve's presence and just pretend everything would work out right.

oOo

The SHIELD Quinjet appeared early that afternoon, and Steve stayed quiet as he filed on board behind Barton and Natasha. The last twenty-four hours had changed a lot of the way he looked at his friends, and sitting next to Natasha this morning as he sketched a face from her memory had shaken him. _No, the eyes are closer together. And older. That's him, but he's older than that._ She had him continue to tweak the sketch until he'd added twenty years to the man's face.

Was she remembering something that happened twenty years ago? Was this man just a look-alike, someone who resembled the man she remembered? Steve hated questioning her mind, but he hadn't been prepared for some of the things she'd revealed. He had always known the Black Widow had a dark past, but to be brainwashed. . . .No wonder she and Barton got along well. The two of them likely depended on one another to keep themselves sane.

Where did Steve fit into all of that? He wasn't sure. As the Quinjet lifted off, he watched Barton and Natasha settle in for the ride. They sat side by side, but not close. Barton leaned against the bulkhead of the plane and closed his eyes. The lines on his face deepened, and Steve knew he was worried about returning to the Helicarrier. Heck, he'd be worried if he was in Barton's position. It had been four months since he walked out of Fury's office and out of New York City. How would people respond to him now, six months after the near-disaster Barton had helped create? Steve wouldn't want the weight of those stares on him, and he wondered if the archer's return to the Helicarrier was such a good idea.

Steve sighed. Barton didn't really have a choice. He was a member of SHIELD and needed to be psychologically cleared in order to go back to his job. The previous day had done wonders for the men's relationship. They'd managed to define their places in Natasha's life without coming to blows, more than could be said for other members of the team. Steve kept himself from shaking his head and tried to clear his mind as he waited for the Quinjet to arrive.

Once they'd landed, he nodded to Barton as the archer and Natasha headed down an unfamiliar hallway. Steve knew the medical bay was down there but had only visited once—after Loki's attack. The further they walked, the stiffer Barton's shoulders became until they stopped at a door some distance from the intersection. Steve silently wished Barton well and wound his way through the ship. He had his own mission to complete today, one he'd insisted on doing rather than leaving it to Natasha.

Fury stood in his customary spot on the Helicarrier bridge, looking tired and possibly trying to intimidate some new techs just for fun. Steve could never tell, though he often saw a glint of humor coming out of Fury's eye. Now, the SHIELD director turned as he stepped inside. "Captain Rogers. What brings you our way?"

Steve shook the man's hand. "A mission, Sir." He reached into his coat and pulled out the folded sketch. "How much have you heard of what's happening in New York?"

Fury shrugged. "Agent Romanoff told me she recognized someone, but she didn't say who."

"That's because she can't recognize him, Sir." Steve held out the sketch. "I took the liberty of having her describe him to me."

Fury took the sketch and studied it, his expression intent. "This doesn't look like anyone on our watch list."

"Yes, Sir, and that's why I'm here." Steve resisted the urge to snap to attention and treat this as if he were still in the Army. "Seeing this face really rattled her. So much so it took most of the afternoon to calm her down."

Fury's gaze moved from the sketch to Steve. After a long moment, in which the SHIELD director studied the captain, he jabbed the sketch toward his second-in-command. "Hill. Get this in the computer and through facial recognition. I want to know who he is, who his contacts are, and what he's doing in New York."

Hill took the sketch. "Yes, Sir."

Steve watched the interaction, surprise sending his eyebrows into his hairline. "Sir. . . ."

"Anything that frightens the Black Widow—or Hawkeye—worries us, Captain." Fury turned back to him. "As soon as we know something, you'll know something. In the meantime, keep her safe, and keep your heads down. Until we know more, we're treating this as a serious threat."

Steve nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. Where's Agent Romanoff now?"

"Uh. . .she was escorting Agent Barton on board."

A small smile crossed Fury's face. It seemed the man was glad to hear the news. "Agent Barton's a good man. It'll be good to have him back."

"Yes, Sir." Steve took his leave then, wandering the ship before finding his way to the detention section. During his one visit on board after the attacks in Manhattan, he'd found a small shrine to Phil Coulson in the detention section where the man had died. Slipping through the door, he saw the shrine had been removed, but a plaque had been put up in honor of the agent. Standing in front of the placard, Steve ignored his reflection in the polished brass and read the words. Fury had done an outstanding job of choosing the right thing to say, and Steve took just a few moments to remember the man—the _hero—_he'd barely known.

oOo

Walking into Joan Erickson's office was one of the hardest things Clint had ever done. He stood just inside the door, swallowing the urge to run, as Natasha outlined his requirements for sessions. No meds, no hypnosis, and he'd be a happy camper. One hint of any of those, and he'd walk. Erickson kept her eyes on her desk as Natasha spoke, something that really bugged Clint. But, as Natasha left the room with a supportive nod, he still forced himself to walk forward and settle nervously in one of the chairs.

Erickson lifted her head and met his eyes. "Agent Barton." The cool tone she used did nothing to help Clint's nerves. "I understand you're here to be psychologically cleared for active duty."

Clint blinked. Had she heard nothing that Natasha had said? "Uh. . .no. I'm here because I need help."

She folded her hands primly on her desktop, her face smooth and showing no emotion. "And why is that?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You heard about Loki, right? How he took over minds and made people do what he wanted them to do?"

She straightened in her chair. "Quite frankly, Agent Barton, I find that hard to believe." She held his gaze, not shrinking away from his indignant glare. "I've spoken with the other agents who were compromised as you were, and they have all had their issues. But to say you had your minds taken over. . . .I have no evidence."

"No evidence?" He stared at her. "How about good agents—men who _never_ disobeyed a direct order—going AWOL? What about them attacking the Helicarrier and almost bringing it to the ground? What about Dr. Selvig, who I know still struggles with his actions while under Loki's control?" He leaned forward, his temper rising. "I didn't come here to debate with you what happened. I came here to get my head straightened out so you can clear me for active duty. Now, I'm having flashbacks and nightmares, and I'm willing to talk with you and work toward overcoming the lasting effects of Loki's actions. _That's_ why I'm here."

If possible, her expression became even colder. She also leaned forward, not breaking eye contact as she braced her elbows on her desk. When she spoke, her voice was low and threatening. "Do _not_ tell me what's possible, Agent Barton. You are not the psychologist."

"No, I'm just the soldier who had his head turned inside out by a megalomaniac calling himself a god."

The pair stared at each other, neither willing to give. Clint had developed a healthy dislike for psychologists in general and SHIELD's head psychologist in particular several years back. One didn't do the kind of work he did without consequences. But even his dislike for McNeil and his department couldn't top the irrational anger he felt toward this woman. How had she even gotten a job with SHIELD if she didn't believe this stuff was possible?

Finally, Erickson glanced away. "So, you're serious about your treatment?"

"Yes."

"Good." She stood and walked around the desk, her shoes clicking on the floor. Unlike most SHIELD agents, psychologists were often allowed to dress in civilian clothing to help their patients feel more at ease. Dr. Joan Erickson wore a prim navy blue suit with a white blouse peeking out of beneath her jacket. She moved close enough that Clint wanted to back away, but he refused to give her the satisfaction. A smirk crossed her face. "There are methods we can try to help you remember the truth of what happened while you worked for Loki. The other agents have made tremendous progress in their efforts to accept the truth and move on."

"Methods?"

She reached behind her for a metronome. "Yes. Starting with hypnosis."

Clint swore he heard Loki's voice cackling in the background as he jumped out of his seat. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. With his fists clenched, he turned his back on Erickson and headed for the door.

Her voice stopped him. "If you leave, Agent Barton, I will see to it that you're never cleared for active duty."

He didn't grace her with a look, turning to show her his profile as he spoke. "You do that, and I won't have to come after you. I have enough friends left in this world who would do it for me."

Then, he left the office.

oOo

After leaving Clint with Erickson, Natasha tried to walk away from the office. But the expression on her partner's face constantly tugged her back to the door. He'd looked so lost, so frightened, that it shook her. Just last night, he'd pulled everything together and became Hawkeye again. Today, that facade had cracked and started showing the wear underneath it. Clint was close to coming apart again, and it wasn't because of his visit to Joe's or Natasha's situation. He honestly didn't want to talk about Loki but wanted to recover. That conflict of interest weighed on him. As a result, Natasha found herself back down the hallway, leaning against the bulkhead with her arms folded as she waited.

The door to Erickson's office slid open, and Clint burst out of it. He slammed a fist against the control panel beside the door, closing the portal and cracking the cover of the panel. Then, he stalked toward Natasha. "You make any of the other agents compromised by Loki see that woman?"

"All of them. Why?" Natasha straightened.

"She's a quack," Clint said sharply, pointing at the door. "She basically told me everything I went through was false, that we worked for Loki and weren't controlled by him, and that we had to admit the truth instead of hiding behind the idea our minds weren't our own! She even wanted to _hypnotize_ me!" He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "How are the other agents?"

Natasha shook her head. "Clint, I don't think that's. . . ."

"Natasha! How. Are. They?"

She met his eyes. "They've all been cleared for duty."

"But?"

She sighed, knowing she wouldn't be able to get away without telling him the truth. Clint always knew when she was hiding something, and this was no different. "Two didn't come home from their missions. One. . . .He resigned a month ago, said he couldn't take the stress. His wife hasn't seen or heard from him since."

Clint stared at her, his mouth a straight line as he clenched his jaw. "And you didn't think it was the _psychologist_ and not what they went through?"

Natasha didn't deign that with an answer. She knew this was Clint's anger talking, that he hadn't meant to suggest she couldn't do her job. He knew better than that. But she had begun to question what had happened with those other agents when he returned from his leave-of-absence on firmer footing emotionally than he'd been when he left.

Seeing that he'd overstepped his bounds, Clint muttered an apology and stalked away. Natasha watched him go, her own emotions in an uproar. If the incident at the mall yesterday wasn't enough for her to bear, she now had this to handle. As Clint disappeared around a corner, she ducked into Erickson's office. "What just happened?"

Erickson looked up from where she'd been making a note in someone's file—probably Clint's. "Agent Romanoff. It's against policy for me to discuss my patients' condition with you."

Natasha moved across the room so quickly the other woman blinked. She leaned over Erickson's desk, getting in the psychologist's face and skimming the notes she'd been making. "Did you not hear a word I said? Do you even _know_ what he went through? No, of course you don't because you refused to read his file! He was _mind-controlled_ by a wannabe god! I _told_ you hypnosis was off limits per his request, and I _gave_ you his file! If you had prepared, you wouldn't be in this situation."

Erickson jumped to her feet. "I was as prepared for this appointment as I am for any appointment with my patients!"

"That's good, because you might want to start building a resume." Natasha backed away and held the woman's gaze coolly. "You have one hour to clear out your office and be off the Helicarrier. I'll have a Quinjet prepared to take you anywhere of your choosing, and the rest of your belongings will be shipped to you. As of this moment, your security clearances have been revoked, and an agent will be coming by your new location to ensure you fully understand your contract with this agency. Am I understood?" When Erickson simply stared, Natasha lifted her voice slightly. "Am. I. Understood?"

"Yes."

Natasha left the stunned woman behind, her own anger rising as she struggled to reconcile what she'd just asked Clint to do. While he didn't _like_ McNeil, at least McNeil listened to his patients. But the anger was also directed at herself. SHIELD had kept her so busy settling into Coulson's job that she had barely taken time to consider the other agents who had been compromised by Loki. If Erickson was treating them all, then they'd be pretty messed up. Clint was the most prominent of the SHIELD personnel compromised by Loki, but there had been other, lesser agents at various safe houses and postings across the nation. Not to mention true enemies of SHIELD. She needed to find Clint, but, first, she wanted to look into those agents and see what had been done for them. If there was a way to undo this mess, then she wanted to find it.

oOo

Clint found himself on one of the observation decks of the Helicarrier. They were about as far up as he could get without needing an oxygen mask at this altitude. And they had a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the flight deck. From this level, the planes looked like half-scale replicas, and the flight crews resembled miniatures.

Why hadn't he left that office the first time Erickson opened her mouth? He should have known it could end badly. When he'd gone to see McNeil, the head of SHIELD's psychology department usually triggered some sort of reaction in Clint born from his years before SHIELD. But McNeil listened and usually found a way around that problem. While Clint didn't _like_ the man, he _respected_ him for that. After all, any one of the psychologists could ground him for whatever reason they wanted.

Would Erickson do that now? Could he handle it if Erickson messed up his career? Granted, he'd had a lot of time to consider that career and honestly had no idea what he'd do without it. He didn't like killing for a living, but he did it to keep men like Steve Rogers from having to become like him. Plus, he'd found a strange sort of family with the Avengers. If Erickson did destroy his career with SHIELD, Clint knew he'd have a place to go. Coulson had taught him so much, had made him much more than just an assassin. He knew tactics, security, and investigations. There were jobs for men like him in the world, and Stark would likely back him if he wanted to strike out on his own.

But what about Natasha? She needed SHIELD right now. With this face from her past turning up, that extra level of protection that SHIELD provided was crucial. Not to mention the resources.

Torn between his partner and his own emotions, Clint stood with his hands in his pockets and ignored the murmurs behind him. The other agents and technicians weren't exactly comfortable in his presence, but he didn't care. This was his life, and he'd take the time to think about it whenever—and wherever—he wanted. If that meant he haunted one of the Helicarrier's observation decks, then those men would just work around him. He refused to leave until he didn't want to strangle a certain psychologist with his bare hands.

oOo

Nick Fury didn't scare easily. He preferred the impression that he never got scared at all, but the situation with Loki had proven him wrong. He still managed to project an air of unshakable confidence, and his people performed better for it.

Seeing Natasha Romanoff stalk onto the bridge sent a frisson of concern down his spine. Fury headed her way. "Agent Romanoff."

Her eyes snapped to his. "Director."

Fury frowned. "I assume Agent Barton's with the psychologist now?" he asked softly.

Romanoff hesitated. "No. I don't exactly know where he is."

"Care to explain yourself?"

Romanoff glanced toward the others on the bridge and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. "Erickson told him he wasn't controlled by Loki and suggested he had willingly worked for him." She paused when he glared. "I've given her an hour to be off the Helicarrier."

Fury knew that Romanoff and Barton were close. But this. . . .Perhaps this was why the other agents Loki had compromised had done stupid things and got themselves killed. Fury had suspected something deeper was going on, but hearing Romanoff's worries about Barton's state of mind while he was on a leave-of-absence helped Fury put his concerns to the back of his own mind. Now, he wished he hadn't. "Hill?"

His second-in-command stepped forward. "Yes, Sir."

"Please ensure that Agent Romanoff's orders are carried out." He turned to stare at the dark-haired woman. "And track down every agent that was under Loki's control. I want them to see McNeil before they go on another mission."

"Yes, Sir." Hill promptly left the bridge to do his bidding, and Fury allowed Romanoff to head to her office. He wandered over to the viewport of the bridge and shook his head.

How had he gotten it so wrong?

~TBC


	6. Please Have

**Author's Note:** Wow! Thank you all for your response to the last chapter! I knew all of you would want to do serious bodily harm to Erickson. :D But...let's just say there's a purpose. :)

**jessica:** LOL! Me, too, and I wrote her! And I did take your comment under advisement. This story did become a lot more Natasha-centric than I anticipated by virtue of the plotline. So I've added her to the characters, though I did put in a warning about not being Clintasha. The sequel to this one, though, is a planned Clint/OC, so very Clint-centric next time!

Also, today starts a daily update of the chapters save for Sunday. My Sundays are just crazy on average, so I'm holding off. The story wound up being twelve chapters, not thirteen. So they should end on Christmas Eve.

All that said, hope all of you enjoy the chapter (while I try to remove cat hair from the keyboard from a very cuddly calico)! ~lg

oOo

It took a full twenty-four hours for Clint to be willing to even speak to McNeil about what happened with Loki. He had spent several hours on that observation deck and had still been there when Natasha found him and told him it was time to head home. During that time, he'd watched from up high as Joan Erickson boarded one of the Quinjets and left the Helicarrier. Right before she left, her gaze swung up to all of the observation towers, and Clint wondered if she knew he was watching. It didn't matter. He'd lost most of his anger and had settled on cold practicality. He'd talk to McNeil or no one. If McNeil refused to clear him for duty, then it was time for his career with SHIELD to end. That wasn't a happy thought, but he could handle it now. After losing so much and letting so much be put to rest, he now felt capable of walking away from the agency that Phil had loved and respected.

This time, he insisted on approaching McNeil's office on his own. He requested entry, ignoring the broken door control one office over. That office was empty, and Erickson's name plate had been removed from the wall. Before he started feeling bad about her departure, McNeil called for him to enter. Clint walked through the door and met the head psychologist's eyes with a firm stare of his own.

Eric McNeil was an older man, approaching sixty, but still fit. He had an oval face with gray hair, a receding hairline, and a pudginess to his face that belied his personal regimen. McNeil had once been an agent until age caught up to him, and he'd put his degree in psychology to work. Coulson had liked him, but Clint found McNeil a little too. . . .He couldn't put the reason for his dislike into words. It probably stemmed from the time he felt perfectly fine for a mission but McNeil wouldn't clear him. That had been a good seven years ago, right after he went to Ireland and his brother "died."

McNeil returned Clint's stare, not rising from his spot behind his desk. "Agent Barton."

"McNeil." Clint kept his tone neutral, but he didn't move from his spot beside the door. He had come of his own free will, and he briefly considered walking back out the door and just telling Fury to sign his resignation. But he'd fought far too many demons to give up now. He motioned toward one of the chairs. "May I?"

McNeil nodded. "Of course." He waited until Clint had settled tensely in one of the comfortable seats before shaking his head. "I heard what Erickson did. Please allow me to apologize. She came highly recommended and. . . ."

"We all make mistakes, Doc." Clint braced his elbows on his knees. "Let it go."

McNeil's stern expression cracked into a sardonic grin. "There are a few people around here who could benefit from that sort of outlook." He leaned back in his chair, appearing to relax a bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but Clint cut him off.

"You planning to hypnotize me, Doc?"

McNeil shook his head. "No."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Meds?"

"Only as a last resort." McNeil met his eyes. "Frankly, Agent Barton, I think we're beyond the use of medication. You're sleeping now, and you seem to have dealt with a lot of this on your own. However, you are obviously still struggling, which is why you're here."

Clint nodded. To say he was "struggling" downplayed how he actually felt. Coming back to New York had been easier than he'd anticipated, but being on the Helicarrier brought a lot of the memories to the surface. Not of Loki, thankfully. But he had pretty much remembered everything he'd done while under the influence of that maniac, and he couldn't help noticing the absence of familiar faces.

McNeil leaned forward, his voice soft as he interrupted Clint's thoughts. "Why do you feel you're not currently fit for duty, Agent Barton?" He shrugged. "It's not physical, and all reports I've received say you've recovered from all your injuries—both during the invasion and during your leave-of-absence—remarkably well. Why do you not want to be put back on the mission roster?"

Clint laced his fingers together as he considered what to say. He'd known the question would come up, but admitting these things to himself was infinitely easier than admitting them to a man he didn't exactly trust. But this was McNeil's job, and he'd already done a better job than Erickson. "It's not that I don't think I can handle the missions. It's. . . .It's _after_ that I'm worried about. It's the people with me, the threat that I might have something in this head of mine that triggers during a mission."

"You're worried about some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion?"

"If that's what it's called." Clint stared at McNeil out the tops of his eyes. "I've had moments, Doc. Times when it felt like Loki was _right there_, talking right into my ear."

"What's he saying?"

Clint thought about that nightmare he'd had while in the Colorado safe house with Barney. "That I'll never be rid of him." He swallowed, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded and his hands started trembling ever so slightly. "It's usually not much more than that. Every now and then, a laugh. Little things."

McNeil nodded. "It's very common for our imagination to fill in the blanks when we've faced something like this. Most prisoners of war deal with similar symptoms, and they stem from the fear that _this_ is the dream. That they—you—are still back there, still under his control."

Clint nodded, not saying a word. He really couldn't. What McNeil said made a lot of sense, and it explained a lot of how he felt.

McNeil picked up a pen. "What do you usually do when that happens?"

"Ignore it." Clint lifted one shoulder. "I know this is real. That concussion Nat—Agent Romanoff gave me was pretty severe. And I had enough glass dug out of my back to know what's real and what's not. What I want to know is how to make it stop."

"First of all, Agent Barton, I know that Agent Romanoff is your partner and a very close friend." McNeil gave him a sly grin. "I also know the rumors about your relationship with her are greatly exaggerated. That said, it is perfectly acceptable to refer to her by her given name here." He paused. "Secondly, making these moments simply stop is a process. There are stages to what you're going through. How are the nightmares?"

The change of subject seemed abrupt for a moment, but then Clint realized what the psychologist was saying. "Not as bad. Still have 'em, but they're not always about Loki."

"Do they include Loki?"

"Sometimes." Clint thought about the one he'd had while in New Mexico. "When I was a kid, this guy attacked me. I dreamed about it while I was traveling. In my dream, he morphed into Loki."

"And that's normal."

"Yeah, I got that." Clint shook his head. "Now, the nightmares are just that. Dreams. I've had 'em for years, and that's a part of my life. I accept that."

"When you do dream about Loki, what helps?"

"Usually just. . . ." Clint paused. "Usually a very hot shower and reminding myself over and over that it's not real. That, and helping my brother recently really gave me a chance to deal with a lot of this stuff."

"How did that help?"

"He'd been hunted by a criminal kingpin. We took the kingpin down, and it was almost like. . . ." Clint shook his head. "I felt almost like I'd been able to help Barney face _his_ 'Loki.'"

"So, helping others face their fears?"

"Yeah."

McNeil nodded slowly. "Assisting others through difficulties, whether they're similar or not, is often the best form of therapy we can find. It provides us with a safe outlet for those emotions." He tilted his head to the side and considered his patient. "How has living in Stark Tower affected you?"

Clint took a moment to truly consider it. "I think it's helped."

McNeil's eyebrows rose. "It did?"

"Don't look so surprised, Doc. Even I have friends." Clint smirked as McNeil chuckled. He sobered a moment later. "Seriously. They've all got their own demons. I know Natasha has talked to you about some of her stuff. Stark, Thor, Bruce. . . .All of us are a little broken. Even Captain America has his issues."

"And this has helped you overcome your problems?"

"It's helped me realize I'm not the only one with problems." He shrugged. "It's weird, actually. I came home and fell asleep around them. I barely do that with Natasha."

"That's a good sign."

"Maybe."

McNeil smiled. "Agent Barton, I have to say I think you've got a very good grasp on your situation. From what we've discussed, I don't see why you won't be cleared for active duty within the month."

Clint finally looked the doctor in the eyes. "Don't do that, Doc. Don't clear me just because I can say the right words."

"Is that what you've been doing? Telling me what I want to hear?" McNeil waited while Clint shook his head. "Then we won't have a problem. As for your fears about a mission triggering something, that's an issue we'll begin to handle in the future. For now, I want you to keep doing what you're doing. Think about what you've said and how the time away has affected you. We'll start the real work next week."

Clint nodded and rose to leave. He paused at the door. "Thanks," he said quietly.

McNeil smiled. "That's why I'm here."

Clint left the office and headed for the flight deck. He had a plane waiting to take him back to Stark Tower. It was a hassle to keep a Quinjet available at a moment's notice for the Avengers' use, but Fury gladly made the concession if his two best agents were happy to live in New York. Besides, even though it had been six months since the events with Loki, the crew of the Helicarrier wasn't all that keen on having Clint around for any length of time. So, whenever he or Natasha needed to head to base, they called for a Quinjet to pick them up at Stark Tower's helipad.

Throughout the flight, Clint was quiet. The pilot was one he'd known for years and, while he usually preferred to fly, he gladly let the other man control the jet. Maybe, when he'd handled his issues, he'd become the Avengers' pilot. But, for now, he needed the time to absorb what McNeil had told him. And he quite liked the doc's style of treatment. He had allowed Clint to come to his own conclusions, asking questions and then listening to the answers. In that way, Clint felt as if he'd done something instead of just being "treated" for whatever ailed him.

As the Quinjet landed, Clint realized that McNeil had not once told him that he had PTSD. Clint knew the signs well, and he had already accepted that it was a big issue for him. But he appreciated the doc's discretion.

Natasha waited for him when he walked out of the Quinjet and into Stark Tower. He grinned. "Miss me?"

She rolled her eyes. "You wanna do dinner?" She glanced over her shoulder to where Stark and Thor were discussing a console game. Or, rather, Stark was discussing the game and Thor listened intently, trying to understand the ins and outs of it. "The hovering's getting to me."

Clint's grin faded. "Sure. I gotta run by the mall, anyway." He narrowed his eyes. "You gonna be okay?"

Natasha understood what he meant. She nodded, her hair brushing her jaw. "I made reservations at Alfredo's."

Clint nodded. "Give me a minute to grab a few things from my room?"

When Natasha agreed, he nodded in greeting to Stark and Thor before jogging down the stairs. He'd worn comfortable clothes—jeans, heather gray jersey shirt, and boots—so he didn't need to change. But he did want to grab his keys. He preferred driving his truck when he could.

Within ten minutes, he drove out of the tower with Natasha happily settled in the seat next to him. He switched on the heater and draped his wrist over the steering wheel while paying careful attention to the traffic around him. The sun hadn't yet set, making this an early dinner, but he didn't mind. It was a bit of normalcy in his otherwise crazy life.

From the time she first joined SHIELD, Clint would take Natasha out for dinner after a mission. It became their coping mechanism, and they often found themselves debating the merits of various restaurants for when they got home. As their careers grew and they were sent on more and more solo missions, those dinners dwindled until they only followed difficult missions. Or when one or the other needed to talk. Since Clint had just spent all that time talking with McNeil, he wasn't too inclined to converse with anyone. But Natasha clearly needed the time out. So he'd put on a happy face to help her.

At the restaurant, Clint parked in the rear of the building, liking the somewhat secluded area. Alfredo's wasn't a premier restaurant, run by an Italian couple who kept enough business to make a living but not enough to become a big name. Alfredo's patronage came from word-of-mouth, people who had eaten there for years passing on the news of the place. Clint had found it the same way: Coulson introduced him. It wasn't as filled with memories as Joe's, but they'd had a few dinners there.

Dinner was a quiet affair, the two assassins not needing words to make the time meaningful. They did discuss Clint's appointment with McNeil, and Clint admitted he might have misjudged the psychologist. Compared to his disastrous appointment with Erickson, this one had been positively tame. Natasha smirked when he said that and then agreed that it was for the best.

After dinner, Clint drove directly to the mall. Natasha agreed to wait in the car as he carried the hat she'd swiped a day or so ago back to the kiosk. It was easy to find as she had an excellent memory, and it still had the tag attached to it. Adopting a sheepish expression, he approached the girl behind the register. "Uh. . .Excuse me?"

She turned with a smile. "Can I help you?"

He held up the hat. "I was here the other day with my daughter, Christmas shopping for her mom. She swiped this and put it in our bag." He shrugged. "She's three and didn't quite understand that I needed to pay for it. I'd like to go ahead and pay now. And apologize."

The girl's smile turned sappy the more Clint poured on the embarrassed-father routine. He even managed to flush slightly, which sold his story. The girl rang up the hat, and he paid without questioning it. Then, he nodded. "Thank you so much! I really appreciate you not reporting me or anything."

"Oh, of course not, sir!" The girl beamed at him. "Kids are so cute! I hope your wife likes the hat."

Clint almost did a double-take at that, but he managed to simply walk away with a smirk. If Natasha knew the story he'd told. . . .He was almost tempted to tell her just to see her reaction. But the topic of kids was a sore spot for the Black Widow, so he decided not to even go there.

Just as he reached the mall entrance, another kiosk caught his attention. It was small, selling various Christmas ornaments and decorations. But one, in particular, caught his eye. He darted over and, within seconds, had picked the perfect piece. After paying for it, he carried the nondescript bag to his truck. Climbing inside, he handed the hat to Natasha. "Here."

She smiled. "Thanks for taking care of this. I thought Steve would have a stroke."

Clint chuckled at that. "If not for what happened, that would have been a sight to see."

"So, how'd you get out of getting the police called."

He met her eyes. "Told the girl my daughter took it."

Natasha snickered. "Your daughter?"

"It was better than saying my partner swiped it because she thought she was being followed."

"True." Natasha eyed the white bag he'd set between them. "What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, right." She reached for it.

"Natasha." The warning in his voice stopped her movement. He eyed her, making certain she knew he wasn't angry. "Leave it."

Natasha sat with her hands in her lap, a curious expression on her face the rest of the way back to Stark Tower. Clint almost burst out laughing at the look. He kept very few secrets from her and usually didn't purchase anything she couldn't see. Given the nature of their work, there were very few "sacred" topics, and they were both open about their preferences on anything. To have her partner tell her to leave something alone only made her curiosity grow. For all he knew, she could think it was anything from alcohol to condoms. Not what it actually was.

At Stark Tower, Clint carried the white bag to his room and hid it in his kitchen. Natasha had gone to her room, wearing her new beret at a jaunty angle now that she wasn't using it to cover her hair. She'd mentioned something about a mission to Istanbul that had been put on hold due to weather, and Clint let her get to work. He puttered around his apartment, went to the range to fire his bow, and in general kept himself busy most of the evening. Finally, around midnight, he pulled out the white bag and crept back upstairs.

The Commons was empty, the Christmas tree the only light. Clint rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "JARVIS?" he whispered.

"Yes?"

"Is everyone either asleep or busy?"

JARVIS replied in a hushed tone. "Mr. Stark is sequestered in his lab and asks not to be interrupted. Dr. Banner, Captain Rogers, Thor, and Agent Romanoff are all in their quarters."

"Good enough." Clint found the ladder in the kitchen pantry and carried it across the room. Climbing above it, he pulled out a hook that had come with the ornament and proceeded to hang the mistletoe with its long garland from the ceiling right above the bar stool Natasha favored. Satisfied with his handiwork, he put the ladder away and returned to his room.

The next morning, as Clint arrived upstairs from his room, he froze with his coffee cup just resting on his bottom lip. Instead of Natasha, the bar stool was occupied by Bruce. The good doctor chatted with Stark, both men oblivious to the addition to the room. Natasha came up the stairs right after him and paused. She started to ask what was wrong but spotted the mistletoe. Rolling her eyes, she grinned when Pepper approached from the opposite direction. The two women met one another's eyes, and Natasha only had to exchange a look with Pepper for Pepper to see the mistletoe. For a moment, Clint swore they communicated telepathically.

What happened next was just as priceless as the scene Clint had witnessed when he first arrived back in New York. Stark caught the byplay between Pepper and Natasha, glanced around, and clued Bruce in to the mistletoe above him. Before the good doctor could do much more than start to babble, Pepper and Natasha proceeded to keep him from leaving the bar stool. Clint grinned at the panic on Bruce's face as Pepper pressed a noisy kiss to his left cheek while Natasha did the same to his right cheek. Both women left smudges of lipstick behind.

A snicker behind him told Clint that Steve had seen the display as well. The soldier clapped Clint on the shoulder and nodded at the mistletoe. "You?"

Clint rolled back on his heels. "Yep." He sipped his coffee and joined the quartet in the kitchen as Stark loudly protested that he should have gotten a kiss too. Pepper was completely unsympathetic to his plight and promptly handed him a tablet with his schedule for the day. She followed it with a quick kiss to Stark's lips, a cheery goodbye to everyone else, and a wave as she disappeared into the elevator.

As conversation resumed, Clint hung back. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Were you recording that?"

"Of course."

"I'd like a picture."

"It will be waiting in your apartment."

Satisfied, Clint joined the noisy crowd and allowed himself to get lost in the friendship. Later that morning, he found a five-by-seven printed out on the computer in the office area of his apartment. The picture perfectly captured Bruce's panic as both Pepper and Natasha kissed him at the same time. Clint chuckled and quietly thanked JARVIS as he carried the photo to the dresser where he'd finally started displaying personal possessions. The photo went next to the Captain America trading card he'd bought in memory of Coulson, and Clint made a mental note to find a frame so he could remember the moment from now on.

oOo

The mistletoe became something of a practical joke. After Bruce got his kiss from Natasha and Pepper, someone moved it to Thor's favorite chair. Unfortunately, by the time he noticed it, both of the women were MIA, and Thor refused Barton's exaggerated offer of a kiss. The men burst into a fit of masculine laughter that echoed through the Commons as they began telling jokes and stories of years past. Steve sat through it all, grinning even when he didn't understand the humor. The beers Stark kept producing made things funnier, and soon Barton and Stark had dissolved into giggles. A few minutes later, Stark staggered away while Barton made a very convincing effort to head down to his room. He looked almost sober until he missed the first step down and almost fell the rest of the way. Thankfully, he caught himself on the railing and spent the next several moments laughing.

And the mistletoe moved. Steve grinned when, two days later, he caught everyone—himself included—walking around with their eyes glued to the ceiling. Only Barton seemed lucky enough to avoid getting caught under it. And Stark _never_ found it. Steve shook his head, considering telling Natasha what was happening, that it was _Barton_ pranking everyone. She had already figured it out, though, and Steve happily agreed to join her when he found her hiding in a darkened corner of the Commons.

Just after midnight, Barton crept into the Commons. He wore pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, but he was barefoot and silent. Natasha, who had relaxed into Steve's side, stiffened slightly. The pair in the corner didn't move, however, as Barton quietly located the ladder and climbed up it to remove the mistletoe from its spot near the tree.

Natasha spoke when he'd reached the floor again. "I thought you might be the culprit."

Barton—and Steve—jumped at her seemingly loud voice. Barton's eyes darted around and found them in their corner. His shoulders slumped, but the sparkle in his eyes didn't dim one bit. "You couldn't let me have my fun?"

Natasha unfolded herself from Steve's side. "What? And let you catch me?"

Steve waited until she was firmly on her feet before rising. He nodded to Barton but didn't leave the two partners alone. His friendship with Barton was solid enough that he could handle the flirting between the archer and Natasha without feeling threatened. Then, he frowned. Why would he feel threatened?

Barton met Natasha's eyes. "You know, mistletoe is a time-honored Christmas tradition."

Natasha simply raised an eyebrow.

Barton sighed dramatically. "Fine!" He then brightened. "Hey. Wanna see if we can catch Fury?"

Steve blinked in surprise, and Natasha glared. Barton just waited for the two of them to get over their shock. He shrugged. "What?"

Natasha shook her head. "You have a death wish."

Barton's smirk returned, and, in that moment, Steve realized what had happened. Somewhere along the way, the real Clint Barton had emerged from his shell. The archer gathered up his mistletoe. "Watch me."

"You'll never get away with it!" Natasha called as he padded away.

Steve chuckled at her perturbed look. "He always like that?"

She snorted. "No. Sometimes, he's worse."

"Worse?"

"Surprisingly, I missed this." She frowned. "Catching him at pranks, seeing what popped up next. They've toned down a bit in the past several months leading up to Loki, primarily because he was in charge of security on the Tesseract. You should have seen the time he dangled a plastic spider from the air vents on the Helicarrier right in front of Hill—who is deathly afraid of spiders."

Steve couldn't stop the laugh. "That had to be a sight."

"It was." Natasha asked JARVIS to bring the lights to full strength and produced a file from beneath a blanket. She met Steve's eyes. "I have a favor to ask, and I hope you'll say yes because I really don't want to take a random SHIELD agent with me."

Steve blinked at the sudden change in tone. "Ask away."

She offered him the file, and he opened it to see maps, blueprints, and a dossier on some Turkish arms dealer. "Ekrem Aksoy. SHIELD has been monitoring his activities for quite some time. Before the snowstorm—and Clint's return—I was planning a long-term mission to infiltrate his ranks in order to learn where he's getting his weapons. However, things changed. He claims he's somehow acquired a way to remotely control nuclear weapons, something that's very dangerous should the wrong hands get ahold of it. I've managed to arrange a meet in Istanbul to purchase it on behalf of SHIELD, but I need backup. Normally, I'd take Clint, but. . . ."

Steve listened closely to everything she'd told him about this mission. "So, you're going undercover at an arms deal?" He frowned. "Aren't I a little conspicuous?"

"Not if you leave the uniform at home." Natasha shrugged. "Steve, I don't trust most of the other SHIELD agents. I trust Clint. I trust you and the Avengers. Stark's a bit too high-profile, and there would be problems if Bruce got angry. Thor's not adapted to Earth well-enough to pull this off, either. Not to mention his hammer kind of makes him impossible to miss." She paused as if thinking over her words. "I don't want Captain America. I want _you_. To be my backup, I mean."

For a moment, he couldn't understand why she'd clarified that last bit. But it didn't matter. She'd managed to make a distinction between himself and the figure he'd been for the last seventy-odd years. It felt good to be considered more than just Captain America, even if that role defined who he was. "What would I need to do?"

"Basically, just keep watch." Natasha shrugged. "I'll find you a nest, and you'll stay there unless you see something I don't know about. These sorts of things are tense, and both parties usually bring weapons. But. . . ." She met his eyes. "I've done them for as long as I can remember. As near as I can tell, this should be easy."

"Should be." Steve sighed. "What about that face you saw? Is it such a good idea to head out without any idea who this guy is?"

Natasha frowned, her hand coming up to rub her forehead. "I don't have a choice. Fury's already okayed the mission, and we can't let this technology get into enemy hands. Besides, I'm not about to let an unknown face control my life."

She walked away then, leaving Steve with the file and a lot to think about. He hated that this had destroyed the light-hearted mood of a few moments ago, but he'd needed to ask the question. He'd seen how Natasha scowled and rubbed her forehead every time she thought of the unnamed man, and it made him wonder if she really was okay. Why would the thought of some strange man cause such severe headaches?

What happened if the face turned up during the mission? That stopped Steve's misgivings. If Natasha panicked during a mission like she had at the mall, it could get her killed. And, since she didn't trust any of the other agents SHIELD had to offer, that meant Steve wasn't certain they could keep her alive. He had no doubt they'd try their best, but Natasha was a very special woman. She didn't take interference lightly, and she was just as likely to attack an ally as a foe.

That settled it, Steve realized with another sigh. He was going to Istanbul.

~TBC


	7. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:** First of all, let me apologize profusely for the late posting of this chapter! If you knew the week I've had, starting with finding out I needed new tires on my car...! Either way, here's the next chapter! Fair warning: this does contain some spoilers for the prequel, "Long Time Comin'." I don't believe it's strictly necessary to read that one if you haven't, but it will help you understand a few things.

And I hope everyone's having a wonderful Christmas since the reviews were down last chapter. And I pray everyone has a safe Christmas vacation!

As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! ~lg

oOo

The day that Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers were scheduled to depart for Istanbul, Nick Fury walked onto the bridge of the Helicarrier with an inscrutable look on his face. He normally didn't like sending Romanoff on these sorts of missions, not since she replaced Coulson. But he couldn't keep the Black Widow chained. And she made concessions by taking only the most sensitive cases, letting other agents fill her role and make their mistakes as she had once done. Things would get easier once Barton returned to duty, and, based on McNeil's quiet report, that wasn't too far away.

Stopping near the conference table, Fury took a moment to look over the bridge. He did this every day, meeting his agents' eyes and watching the techs sit up straighter. He found it more than a little amusing to realize his presence caused such a level of intimidation.

This morning, though, snickers bounced around the bridge, and every agent tried to _not_ look at him. One guy's eyes darted upward, though, and Fury slowly followed his gaze. There, hanging from one of the air vents right under his customary spot for surveying the bridge, hung a sprig of mistletoe, the long red and green garland disappearing up into the air duct. He studied it, his mind not needing more than two seconds to figure out who had managed to catch him under the mistletoe. Only Barton used the air ducts, and he only did so on rare occasions—when he needed to move quickly from one spot to another or when he played a prank. Besides, Barton was the only one on the Helicarrier gutsy enough to prank the SHIELD director.

Fury lowered his gaze and met Hill's eyes. His assistant stood in her usual spot, her normally placid face scrunched as amusement sparkled in her eyes. She looked at him and then quickly glanced away, pressing her lips together in an obvious attempt not to laugh. Seeing that, he decided that he'd see just how far he could push her control. "Agent Hill?"

"Yes, Sir?" She swallowed, her lips tipping upward in spite of her best efforts.

"Remind me again what the tradition is concerning mistletoe."

Sheer panic crossed her face. "Uh, Sir, it's. . .um. . . ." She straightened. "The person caught beneath it is to receive a kiss."

Fury gave her a look that clearly said, "Well, what are you waiting for?" At that moment, she lost control of her laughter, and it came spilling out in a loud snort. Now that Hill's composure had been broken, several other agents openly laughed, leaving Fury to retreat to his office. As soon as the door closed behind him, he let out the mirth that had collected over the course of the past few moments. Shoulders shaking, he dropped into his chair.

It felt good to have the old Barton back. And Fury was confident Barton was responsible for the mistletoe. The archer knew Fury would get retribution, and that it would be spectacular. Fury just needed to plan the perfect moment and prank to play. Oh, this would be fun!

oOo

Clint waved as Natasha and Steve headed for the flight deck, serious expressions on their faces. Both were focused on the upcoming mission, and Clint refused to distract either one. That Natasha had asked Steve to be her backup didn't bug him. He preferred having Captain America watching out for her rather than some SHIELD agent he didn't know. Besides, given how the Cap obviously felt, Clint knew the other man would do everything in his power to keep her safe since he could not be there. He had not been cleared for active duty, yet. Until that happened, he could not be asked to go on missions.

No, what bothered him was the lack of information around that face she'd seen. Both SHIELD and Stark had come up empty on their searches, though Stark continued looking. The billionaire hated failure of any kind, and Clint appreciated that attitude. Especially since seeing that face had spooked the Black Widow. Clint would have wondered if Natasha had had a flashback except that she had never experienced something so nebulous before. And the apparent ability of this guy to just fall off the map. . . .That worried a lot more people than just Clint.

He sighed as he approached McNeil's door, shoving his worries for Natasha from his mind. The longer he was in New York, the more he felt the need to get back to doing something more productive than sitting around Stark Tower, playing the occasional practical joke. He'd given McNeil's words a lot of thought over the past week and had decided to think positively. The psychologist clearly thought Clint had made tremendous progress on his own, but Clint doubted that. He hadn't set out to recover from PTSD. He'd just needed to figure out who he was.

Today, McNeil's office door was open, and Clint knocked on the wall. The psychologist glanced up from his notes and waved him inside. "Agent Barton. Right on time."

Clint closed the door behind himself and settled into the chair he'd used last week. "Expecting me, Doc?"

McNeil smiled as he rounded his desk and took the chair across from his patient. "Your file says you're punctual to a fault when it comes to medical exams of any kind, though I believe that is simply your way of getting through the unpleasantness quickly."

Clint shrugged, not denying it. He noticed the doc had settled with his back to the door, something Clint couldn't do, and was watching him closely. "So, what's on the menu today?"

"Have you given much thought to our discussion last week?"

"Yeah, a lot." Clint again braced his elbows on his knees, more comfortable in the hunched position than settled back in the chair. The upturned collar of his leather coat brushed his jaw as he spoke. "I still don't think I've done all that much, but I got what you were trying to say. Coping is different for everyone, and I gotta learn how to do that."

McNeil's eyebrows rose. "That's what you took from last week's session?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

"I thought we merely discussed what your symptoms were and what helped them."

A shrug caused his jacket collar to jab into his jaw a bit more. "We did. But it got me thinking. There's a _reason_ I can relax at Stark Tower. There's gotta be reasons for why I feel so different after four months of driving cross country in an emotional haze."

"Could it perhaps be due to burying a few ghosts?" McNeil asked softly. "Maybe facing a few demons and finding out they're nothing more than men?"

Clint thought about that for a moment. The idea had crossed his mind that he could kill Old Man Willoughby, that Randall wouldn't stand a chance if Clint looked him up, and that Buck and the Swordsmen were truly dead. Seeing Marcy had shown him the harsh life he'd escaped when he left the circus. Yes, he had his fair share of nightmarish experiences, and he _did_ see and do some of the darkest things on the planet. But he had a home, a place to fall back on if it got to be too much. He had roots, even if those roots were in SHIELD rather than a physical location. But Marcy had none of that. In the circus, acts came and went, scams abounded, and the possibility that your closest friend could betray you was ever present.

Clint looked at McNeil. "Maybe."

The psychologist nodded. "I thought so. Sometimes, dealing with current trauma is made easier by resolving past trauma. In your case, your past made the symptoms of Loki's control even harder to bear. Now that the past is no longer an issue, you can focus on the current battle."

Clint made a face that could only be described as a shrug. "Makes sense." He finally sat back in the chair, crossing one ankle over his knee and sighing deeply. "What's on the agenda today?"

McNeil smiled, but it was tinged with sympathy and a touch of regret. "Today, I'd like you to tell me about Loki." He held up a hand when Clint tensed. "Take your time and try to think objectively. This isn't supposed to be easy, though subsequent retellings will become less painful."

Clint forced himself to breathe. "Loki," he growled. "He just appeared out of that thing. Had this spear in his hand and an evil smile on his face." Pushing aside the emotion, Clint tried to find the calm that served him so well in the field. "I didn't know who he was or what he wanted. Just that he started shooting up the place."

"And you reacted as any SHIELD operative would," McNeil prompted after a long moment.

"Yeah." Clint stared at his hand splayed across his knee, his mind latching on to the smallest detail—from the deep blue of his jeans to the fact he needed to trim his fingernails. Anything to keep the panic at bay. "He took a shot at me and two other agents. I dove out of the way. It took me a moment to catch my breath after landing wrong, and he was just. . .there. Touching my chest with that scepter."

"Did he say anything?"

Clint's jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together. He instinctively wanted to touch his chest, where the spot still burned on occasion. "'You have heart,'" he quoted. "I still have no idea what that means."

"And then what?"

Clint swallowed. Even after his breakdown on that New Mexico highway, he'd done everything in his power to avoid thinking about those horrifying days. "Pain." He nodded, breathing out through his mouth in an attempt to dispel some of the emotion. "I couldn't breathe. Everything I'd ever gone through—every nightmare—just flashed across my vision. I couldn't take it and just. . .gave up."

"He was in your mind, Agent Barton," McNeil reminded him. "There is no defense against that. Not that _we_ know."

Clint jumped to his feet and paced across the room. "I could have fought harder."

"Could you have?" McNeil asked. "You were being tortured with your own memories and fears."

"It's not like I haven't faced that before!"

"Not this way." McNeil gave him an infuriatingly calm look. "This wasn't external, Agent Barton. This was internal. Loki knew right where to hit you so you'd fold. He took full advantage of that internal weakness and used it."

Clint hated how weak made him sound. "I tried to kill him once." He shook his head when McNeil looked genuinely surprised. "Before the battle, I mean. He let me sleep. When I woke up, I had some level of control. I would have killed him if he hadn't seen me. But he did. And he used that scepter again. After that, there was no sleep for anyone. Just blind obedience."

"Why?"

"It hurt too bad to resist." And that was the simple truth. He'd been tortured in his own mind. "Ever had a waking nightmare, Doc? Ever been walking down some tunnel and have a moment when you're living and breathing the time a man you once trusted trying to beat you to death, only to blink and be back in the tunnel but in pain from remembered injuries?" Clint waited while McNeil shook his head. "Well, that's what Loki liked to do. Pick random moments to torture us—_all_ of us—and we never knew when they'd hit."

The office was silent for a long time as the two men absorbed what was said. Clint kept his back turned to McNeil, needing to hide the weakness of his tears more than his innate distrust of anyone outside the team. His hands shook slightly as he ran them over his face. But talking about all of this now, after having already faced it on his own, was somehow easier. It still terrified him beyond anything he'd ever known, and he'd likely have nightmares for at least a week. But it was easier.

Finally, McNeil stirred. "So, six months later, do you think there's anything you could have done to prevent what happened? Short of never having recovered the Tesseract in the first place?"

Clint forced himself to think about that question. He turned to stare at the psychologist as his mind shifted gears. He'd always seen better from a distance, and time had given him that distance. Looking back, he saw the pain he'd experienced and caused. But he also saw how woefully unprepared they'd been. "No."

"Why is that?"

"Because," Clint said as he walked back to his chair, "he was using far superior technology and, at the time, seemed invulnerable to anything we threw at him. We were unprepared. None of us could have anticipated what that scepter did or how powerful it was."

And that's when it hit him. Clint dropped into the chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut as he struggled to breathe. _It wasn't his fault!_ People had been saying that for months now, but it had never been so clear to him. In his mind, he was responsible because it was his body performing the actions. But, at the root of it all, there was a very simple issue. They'd been caught unaware, and Clint had paid the price. There was no blame to assign to Fury, who first drew Loki's fire when he asked the Asgardian to put down the spear. Nor could he blame himself for not killing Loki when he had the chance. Bullets had _bounced_ off the guy. In the end, everything that happened after Loki's arrival was in direct reaction to the Asgardian's actions. Clint could no more blame himself for finding a way to come through the torture by blind obedience than he could blame Hill for trying to kill him or Bruce for tearing the Helicarrier apart. The blame landed squarely on Loki's shoulders.

The emotional release that came with that realization was no less powerful than the one that hit that night in New Mexico. Clint looked at McNeil. "Doc?"

"We're done for the day," McNeil replied.

Clint bolted for the door and down the hall. He had very few places on the Helicarrier where he could go to be alone, and he hurried to the nearest air duct. Climbing inside, he crawled to the most isolated place he could find, curled into a ball, and quietly but completely came apart as, for the first time in months, he allowed himself to release the guilt he'd carried for so long.

oOo

The ringing of a cell phone pulled him out of his thoughts. Clint blinked in the dim, cool light of the air duct, surprised to hear Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind" playing from his pocket. He'd forgotten he'd even tucked the Stark phone in his jacket as he left the Tower. Now, he sat with his back braced against one corner of an air duct, his knees pulled up and his hands in front of his face.

Fumbling for the thing, he managed to hit the Answer key before it went to voicemail. "Yeah."

Stark's voice came through loud and clear. _"Hey, Legolas, where are you?"_

Clint frowned. Why would Stark be looking for him? It's not like the Avengers had a mission or anything. "I'm on the Helicarrier." He looked back and forth, his seat at a junction between two different air ducts.

Stark sighed noisily. _"You forgot, didn't you?"_

"Obviously."

_"The Revels?"_ Stark asked._ "Cambridge? Pepper wanted us to fly out there and you promised when Capsicle and Romanoff had to bail?"_

Clint closed his eyes as he remembered. He had made that promise, and he'd even gone to his old quarters and found a suit for it. Cursing under his breath, he sighed. "I'm sorry. I got caught up in something here, and. . . ."

_"It's fine. Just get here. We're leaving on time."_

"I'll meet you there." Clint started sliding out of his hiding spot. "My clothes are here on the Helicarrier, anyway."

Stark hung up a moment later, and Clint shook his head. He crawled back through the air ducts to his old quarters, not wanting anyone to see him until he'd managed to clean up a bit. Kicking the vent cover from the duct, he dropped into his room and looked around. Things were dusty but just how he'd left them. The suit he'd chosen was black with a silver undertone. Natasha said it was one of his best looks, and he rarely questioned her on style. In the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror and decided he had no time to really do much about the goatee that had started shadowing his upper lip and chin. Deciding to just go with it, he dove under the hot water, quickly bathed, and dressed. He walked on board the Quinjet waiting to take him to New York carrying his tie and smirking at the pilot. "Hey, mind taking me to Cambridge instead of New York? I'm late for something."

"Sure." The pilot gave him a friendly grin when he settled into the copilot's chair to tie his tie. As the silk slid across itself, Clint took a deep breath and let it out. For the first time in months, the weight of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders. And it felt great.

oOo

Pepper Potts tried not to ask for much from the Avengers. Unlike Tony, she realized that, though they all lived in Stark Tower, they also had their own lives. Clint and Natasha worked for SHIELD, Steve had his own issues to handle with adjusting to the modern age, and Bruce usually hid in his own lab. But some traditions were meant to be shared.

She'd been introduced to The Christmas Revels when she was a child. From then on, she'd loved the yearly presentation and took the time to learn the music. Tony discovered her love during her first year as his assistant and always allowed her to purchase a ticket on his dime. Since they'd been together, he went with her. This year, with the Avengers celebrating Christmas as a team, Pepper had asked all of them to go with her. Having Natasha and Steve bow out for a mission hurt a bit, but she also understood that duty called.

Now, she frowned as they boarded Tony's private plane to fly to Cambridge. "Where's Clint?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Just talked to him. He said he'd meet us there."

Pepper saw the concern on Bruce and Thor's faces. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know," Tony said honestly. "I mean, he growled at me like usual. But he sounded. . . ." He waved a hand. ". . .odd."

Pepper dropped the subject. She kept up on the various events in the Avengers' lives, and she knew that Clint had been seeing a SHIELD psychologist. Maybe something had come up with his appointment that day, or he'd been caught by a flashback of some sort. Though that didn't fit with the way he'd been behaving since coming back to New York. The Clint that returned from his sabbatical wasn't the reclusive archer from before. This new Clint was a prankster, full of humor, and usually willing to let his guard down a bit. This Clint was a friend.

In Cambridge, a car met them and took them to the theater. Tony stood in line while Pepper, Bruce, and Thor waited by the door. Bruce looked distinctly uncomfortable, but Thor asked question after question about The Christmas Revels. Apparently theater and entertainment was a big thing in Asgard. She had just finished explaining the tradition of the audience dancing out into the lobby with the troop during intermission when she spotted Clint.

Most of the time, Agent Clint Barton looked completely unassuming and almost forgettable. He favored relaxed jeans and t-shirts that wouldn't restrict his movements. Tonight, though, he'd pulled out all the stops. Pepper saw the way women turned to watch him as he passed, and a grin covered her features. For a covert operative, Clint knew how to draw attention. And he did so with his confident swagger and that distracting three-piece suit as he passed under the lights of the theater to join the trio waiting for Tony Stark.

Pepper smiled at him. "You look wonderful."

"Thank you." He bent to kiss her cheek and then shook hands with Thor and Bruce.

Tony chose that moment to return. "Hey, who's kissing my girl?" His eyes widened when Clint turned. "Barton?"

Clint smirked. "The one and only."

Pepper laughed when Tony continued to stare. None of them expected Clint to clean up so nicely, and she idly wondered if he didn't dress up just for this purpose.

Once inside the theater, they took their seats and chatted as they waited for the show to start. Pepper kept giving Clint sidelong glances, more surprised than anything. He seemed completely relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Though he chose the seat in Tony's box that put his back to a corner, he still smiled and laughed freely as Tony made wry jokes and off-color comments about women's wear in the theater. Pepper just rolled her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the show started.

The Christmas Revels focused on Irish traditions this year, and Pepper noticed how Clint's eyes sparkled a touch in recognition. She settled back in her chair to enjoy the program, which included carols and songs that everyone—the audience included—sang. However, it was during one traditional Irish song, _B__á__nchnoic __É__iraenn __Ó_, that she heard a low voice behind her. It was rough, with a slight touch of rock or blues in it, and Pepper tried to ignore it. She couldn't, however, and glanced over her shoulder to see Clint with his eyes focused on the stage, quietly singing along with the chorus. He missed a few words, but it wasn't the mistakes that drew her. For those few moments, he changed, and she realized that he'd revealed something to all of them.

During intermission, Pepper slipped away from Tony's side and found Clint leaning against a wall. She looped her arm through his and led him back to the group. "I didn't know you sang."

"I don't." He shrugged. "Not well."

She rolled her eyes. "So, what was that song? Not the carols we sang along with, but the one you sang."

"_B__á__nchnoic __É__iraenn __Ó_? In English, it's _The Fair Hills of Ireland_." He tipped his head to one side. "An Irish lament for the land. I learned it when I was in Ireland a few years back."

Pepper wisely dropped the subject of Ireland, but she couldn't resist one more request. "Do you think you could sing some carols for us? On Christmas?"

Clint stopped walking and stared directly at her. "You really want me to?" The tentative expression on his face, as if he were uncertain about his place in life, surprised her.

"Yes." She tugged him closer to the other members of their group. "Now, come on. The second half of the show is starting!"

oOo

Istanbul. . . .

Steve had never seen a weapons deal go down, as Natasha put it, and he watched curiously as she walked into the warehouse. Hours ago, they'd come and decided on his "nest," and Steve had stayed behind, in position and waiting for Ekrem Aksoy to make an appearance. Right at the appointed time, a large box van pulled into the warehouse and parked. Natasha confidently strode through opposing doors just a few moments later, and the deal began.

Steve couldn't understand the words. After all, he didn't speak Turkish or whatever language these guys were using. But he did understand body language. Natasha had told him it was customary for both parties to bring guards, but she decided to go alone. It would create an illusion of overconfidence, and that worried Steve. While he trusted Natasha's judgment in most things and had seen her in action against the Chitauri, he wasn't confident in her ability to dodge multiple bullets at once. And the three guards Aksoy had brought all carried highly advanced weapons, obviously posturing in an attempt to intimidate the Black Widow. Too bad she didn't scare easily.

The meeting seemed to go without a problem, so Steve settled in his spot and just waited. Natasha had expected this, hence why she didn't want him physically with her. Besides, Steve supposed she was accustomed to operating with Barton at her back. Barton could take out most of these guys before they got more than one shot off, and, not for the first time, Steve second-guessed his decision to accompany her.

Then, things changed. Aksoy said something that caused the Black Widow to tense, and Steve sat up a bit straighter. Three more men entered the warehouse, flanking Natasha and putting themselves right in the path of her escape. Steve started moving as quietly as possible, his black suit not making a sound as he slid to the ground. He wished for the shield that was so much a part of him and crept through the shadows until he got as close to Natasha as he could without giving away his position.

The fight began suddenly. One of the newcomers said something in a completely different language from Aksoy's, and Natasha reacted immediately. She threw an elbow over her shoulder, connecting with his nose and knocking him backward. The three guards Aksoy had brought drew their weapons, and Steve grabbed a trash can lid leaning against a crate. It wasn't as balanced as his shield, but it worked. He managed to throw off the aim of one guy and completely disarm a second before he dove into the fray.

The fight lasted only a few minutes. Both Steve and Natasha fought as fiercely as ever, but these guys had an advantage. Steve felt the sting of a needle in his neck shortly after entering the fight. He clapped a hand over the spot, not surprised to see it come away bloody. Natasha stared at him, her eyes wide and terrified as she began to sway. Steve saw her go down to her knees, but she pushed herself back up and into the fight. Steve whirled and, with one strong punch, sent his attacker flying across the room.

But something was happening. The edges of his vision were blurring, and his veins burned as the poison made its way through his body. He still fought, but his reactions were sluggish, the warmth of the warehouse working against him as he tried to fend off his and Natasha's attackers. He vaguely noted that she'd fallen and seemed unconscious, and he sent a prayer heavenward that this wasn't the end. With one final punch that went wild, he sank to his knees and could fight no longer. _This isn't possible!_ Curling into a ball, he looked up and recognized a face. A face that he'd drawn. "You!"

The world faded to gray and then to black.

~TBC

**Author's Note II:** The Christmas Revels is an actual performance put on in Cambridge, Massachusetts, every year. Each year's theme changes. This year, it was Irish Christmas, and I found that really a lot of fun to explore given Clint's mentioned trip to Ireland in "Long Time Comin'." The song, _B__á__nchnoic __É__iraenn __Ó,_ is an actual Irish lament, and it is being featured this year in The Christmas Revels.

Let me know what you think! ~lg


	8. Dreaming

**Author's Note:** Thank you to the reviewers that did drop a line! Hope everyone's enjoying their holidays!

Just a fair bit of warning: the coming chapters get somewhat dark. This story didn't quite turn out to be the Christmas story I had intended, but I do like how it came out.

All that said, I hope you enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think! ~lg

oOo

Steve woke in a cold room with barely enough light to see. He blinked at the ceiling, frowning at the way his head ached, and wondered how he'd managed to end up with a hangover. After the serum, he shouldn't have been able to get drunk.

Then, memory returned. He'd been injected with something. Something that burned as it moved through his body. Whoever had formulated that stuff knew what they were doing if they brought even him down. For just a moment, Steve idly thought it might be a great idea to get the formula. It might work to subdue the Hulk if the big guy ever got loose.

Then, he sat up. He'd been lying on a narrow bunk topped by a thin mattress. The world spun slightly, and he recognized jail bars. Waiting until he was a bit steadier on his feet, Steve stood and wandered around. He still wore the dark clothes he'd been given for the mission, though anything that might be used as a weapon had been taken. The latrine consisted of a hole in the floor, and water came from a spigot that looked as if it had seen better days. Other than the second bunk in the room, there was nothing else besides the bars and the cold seeping through the stone walls.

At the bars, he grabbed the cold metal and leaned to see as far up and down the corridor as he could. There were other cells, all of them dark and likely empty. He didn't hear the sounds of human existence. "Hello?" His call echoed back at him. "Anyone there?"

Nothing happened.

Steve sighed and leaned his forehead against the cold bar. The coolness felt good on his headache, and he tried not to become too angry with himself. Of course the deal had been a trap. Ekrem Aksoy was a brilliant businessman, and a "weapon" as powerful as the Black Widow. . . .That was a sale too good to pass up. That these men thought of Natasha as a weapon and not a human being caused a low flame of indignation and rage to blossom in his gut, upsetting his stomach even more. He swallowed, realizing he must have either been given a massive dose or been drugged more than once. Based on the slightly disconnected feeling and the way his movements were still uncoordinated, he'd put his money on the latter option.

"Hello?" he called again.

When no one answered a second time, Steve sighed and trudged back to the bunk. "His" bunk. The room was just on the uncomfortable side of cool, making him thankful his captors hadn't taken his clothes or shoes. Granted, they'd removed the laces from his boots and had done a thorough search for tracking devices and hidden weapons, but he still had that small bit of protection. It was time to count his blessings and figure out how to get out of here.

Unfortunately, he had another issue to worry about. Natasha. She had to be here somewhere, unless they'd been transported to separate locations. He couldn't be certain, but he knew he'd recognized a face just before he passed out. It felt weird to think that, but he had no other way of describing it. The only other thing that he had to even relate it to—outside of the frequent beatings he'd taken before the serum—was when he went down in that plane. That "coma" had lasted for seventy years. This one had lasted for. . . .He looked for his watch and found it missing. He had no idea how much time had passed.

Running a hand over his face, Steve resolved himself to waiting. SHIELD would know the mission didn't go as planned, and they'd send rescue. Preferably, the Avengers. Depending on what happened in the meantime, Natasha might not respond well if someone other than Clint Barton tried to get her out. Ignoring the squeezing sensation in his chest at that thought, Steve let out a deep breath and began going over every memory he had before he'd awakened here. He wanted to be ready when the time was right.

oOo

The dream woke Clint a little before four in the morning. He jerked awake and sat up in bed, sweat covering his body as the adrenaline faded. He'd dreamed of Loki again, of attacking the Helicarrier and nearly killing Natasha. Unlike in previous dreams, when he'd actually killed her, he'd stopped just in time, giving her a chance to get away.

Pushing back the covers, Clint padded across the apartment to the kitchen. The light under the cabinet provided just enough illumination for him to fill a glass with water and wet his parched throat. Had he been shouting in his sleep? He couldn't tell, though he doubted anyone would know. Stark likely soundproofed the walls.

As he sipped the water, Clint forced himself to breathe. He waited for the inevitable whisper of Loki's voice in his ear and the crushing weight of guilt to settle over his shoulders. Neither came. He still felt responsible for the attack on the Helicarrier, but he looked at it in another light. It really wasn't his fault. That realization seemed so simple, but Clint rarely experienced something so profound. Just as Coulson's letter had given him something to hold on to while he went through his breakdown, the conversation with McNeil gave him another anchor. Loki's attack and subsequent actions caused every bit of the heartache. Yes, Clint's _hands_ had done the work, but he—and the other men under Loki's control—had been given no choice. There was cold comfort in that, the sort of comfort that a soldier took when he had to kill another human being. It was ugly and unwanted and sickening, but it had to be done.

Pushing those thoughts away, Clint headed back for the bed and began straightening out the sheets. He'd arrived back here just after midnight, the trip to Cambridge for The Christmas Revels something he'd enjoyed in spite of himself. Stark, Bruce, and Thor had gone to make Pepper happy, but Clint found himself drawn into the performance. Showmanship was in his blood, a part of him that very few ever actually saw, and he thoroughly enjoyed seeing the skill and talent displayed on the stage. Hearing the Irish songs, particularly _B__á__nchnoic __É__iraenn __Ó_, only made him smile. He'd loved Ireland in spite of the reason for his trip there seven years ago. Maybe, once he got himself straightened out and back to work, he'd be able to go back.

Thinking of Ireland and The Christmas Revels helped calm him a bit more, and Clint had just started drifting back to sleep—another significant change in his normal sleeping patterns—when his cell phone started playing "New York State of Mind." He'd changed the ringtone to his favorite song after returning to New York, and it made him smile every time he heard it. Except for now. Now, he grabbed it and answered without glancing at the name. "What?"

Fury's voice came over the line. "I need all of you on the Helicarrier. A Quinjet's on the way, should be there within thirty minutes."

Clint blinked as the call was disconnected. Fury was assembling the Avengers? Why? Then, panic slammed into him. Two of the Avengers—Natasha and Steve—were overseas. Something had to have happened. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "JARVIS, lights." As the lights came up, he pushed aside the blankets yet again. "Can you wake the others and let them know?"

"Already done, Sir," the AI replied. "Mr. Stark received a similar call, though he is not responding as graciously as you."

Clint smirked at JARVIS's frustrated comment. Stark had really outdone himself on the AI, and the added emotionality that JARVIS portrayed—usually in subdued undertones—never ceased to amuse Clint. He took a moment to consider a quick shower then realized he'd cleaned up well for his trip to Cambridge. Ignoring the shower, he splashed water on his face, ran his wet hands through his hair, and combed it into place.

Less than thirty minutes later, a Quinjet landed on the newly updated helipad. Clint carried his case with his bow and quiver in it, not surprised to see Thor wearing his Asgardian armor and hefting Mjolnir or Bruce with at least one change of clothes. Stark walked out in his Iron Man suit, no less happy about being awakened at four in the morning than he was now. He nodded to Clint, Thor, and Bruce. "See you there."

Clint waved as Stark took off. A few seconds later, he and the other Avengers watched the flash of the city and then the ocean below them as they, too, left New York behind.

What had happened on Natasha's mission? Before she'd left, Clint had asked what it was, and she'd told him everything. Ekrem Aksoy was known to be shrewd, and he always looked for the best way to make a little money. If Clint's guess was right, someone had leaked information on Steve's abilities, and Natasha had been forced to take action. A fierce snarl twisted his lips as he thought about something most did not know. Natasha was deadly in her own right, but she'd been made that way. That nebulous past of hers included things that very few people would understand. Unfortunately for him, Steve was one of those few.

On the Helicarrier, Maria Hill met them as they came in from the cold. The carrier had landed in the ocean for a time, though it would likely lift off as soon as everything was secure. Clint followed Hill to the bridge and, at the vague wave of her hand, settled in his normal place at the briefing table. His eyes flitted upward, and he buried the smirk that wanted to form when he saw the mistletoe still hanging in place. He wished he'd had a camera to see Fury's face when it was first spotted, but he hadn't been able to get it in position without destroying the prank. He'd just have to find the security footage.

He turned to the head of the table as Fury met his gaze. That single eye glared at Clint, sparkling with a mixture of mischief and promise. SHIELD's director would get revenge for the prank. Of that, Clint had no doubt.

The person on Fury's left surprised Clint, though. Eric McNeil sat comfortably in the chair, looking the same as he always did during Clint's appointments. The serious expression on McNeil's face made Clint sit up straighter as Stark finally arrived minus his armor.

The billionaire dropped into his chair. "_What_ is so important that we're dragged out of bed at this un_godly_ hour?"

Fury ignored the perturbed tone. He met Clint's eyes again. "Twelve hours ago, we lost contact with Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers."

Stark dropped his hand to the table in amazement. "_Twelve_ hours? And we're just now hearing about it?"

Not in the mood for one of Stark's petty arguments, Clint glared at him. "It's SHIELD protocol," he said in a low tone. "If an agent's position is compromised, he or she has twelve hours to make contact before search and rescue teams are sent out. The time limit is set so that if said agent is escaping and/or evading, they can get to ground and not compromise their new position." He turned back to Fury. "You know what happened?"

Fury nodded and pushed a button. The displays embedded in the table lit up, scrolling through the mission parameters. Stark blinked and frowned. "Whoa, wait. This guy got ahold of tech that could _control_ a nuclear missile _remotely_?"

Bruce startled in his chair. "Is that even possible?"

Stark shrugged. "Well, yeah, it's possible. I mean, I could probably build something like that. But that's not the point. If someone like Aksoy got his hands on this technology. . . ."

Fury interrupted the oncoming lecture. "Which is why we sent in Agent Romanoff. She chose Captain Rogers as her backup on this case."

Clint's jaw clenched as he read through the information. Natasha had chosen to take Steve with her because he wasn't cleared for active duty yet. Part of him wanted to blame himself for taking so long to recover from what Loki had done, but the other part—the rational part—admitted it was for the best. He didn't trust himself to make the right call and, had he gone to Istanbul rather than staying for his appointment with McNeil, he might have misinterpreted the arms dealer's twitch as an attack. Looking at Fury, he sighed. "You want us to find them."

"Yes." Fury met each gaze around the table. "These are members of your team, not to mention very valuable members of SHIELD. Both of them carry highly classified information, and, if they're truly compromised, could result in severe events for several countries. Including the United States and Russia."

A chill ran down Clint's spine. "Sir, that sketch that Captain Rogers asked you to run?"

Fury shook his head. "Facial recognition came up empty."

When Clint angled a glare his way, Stark held up his hands. "Hey, short of performing a miracle, I found nothing. No one on any list in or out of the the US from or to Russia. Not even a twitch. This guy is _good_. The only thing we have on him is Romanoff's memory. I could probably find something, but it would take a _lot_ more time to get past Russia's firewalls without triggering some sort of response. Which, I can do."

"Not now," Fury replied. "Agent Barton, you've just been cleared for active duty and placed in command of this particular investigation. Anything you need, say the word."

Clint straightened at the announcement, his jaw opening in shock. "Sir, with all due respect. . . ."

Fury narrowed his eye. "That will be all. A jet is waiting on the deck to take you to Istanbul to begin your investigation. Dismissed."

Clint sat in shock as Stark immediately began arguing about who should be in charge of what and Bruce tried to calm the billionaire. Thor rose, his face inscrutable as he followed the other two men from the bridge. Clint remained frozen, though, his mind trying to process what he'd just been told. He glanced up and found Fury and McNeil also at the table, both watching him with patient expressions.

Fury raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, Agent Barton?"

"Yes, Sir." Clint looked from Fury to McNeil. "With all due respect to your opinion, Doc, I don't feel I'm qualified or ready for this."

McNeil started to speak, but Fury cut him off. "No one knows the Black Widow like you do, Agent Barton. Right now, we need your expertise on this mission. _You_ are in charge."

McNeil held up a hand to interrupt Fury. He met Clint's eyes. "Agent Barton, while you may or may not agree with me, you've made tremendous progress just in the last two weeks. I believe you're ready for this mission. As Director Fury pointed out, you're the best qualified, and I believe you _need_ this mission as much as you needed yesterday's appointment with me." He paused while Clint narrowed his eyes. "I'll be monitoring your comms the whole time and, should something happen that triggers anything, I'll be there to talk you through it."

"Right." Clint nodded, struggling to breathe as he absorbed what these two men were telling him.

Fury spoke again, this time low and reassuring. "You're ready for this, Agent Barton."

Clint needed nothing else. Hearing Fury's approval in that final statement was almost as good as hearing Coulson's approval. He sighed and pulled himself together, pushing aside the shock that had kept him in his chair. Pushing to his feet, he straightened his shoulders and let out a determined breath. "Thank you, Sir."

Fury nodded once. "Bring them home."

Clint left the bridge of the Helicarrier intent on doing just that.

oOo

"Natalia Romanova." The voice echoed slightly as Natasha began to wake. She frowned, unable to hide the grimace at the headache and the uncomfortable way her head hung to one side. Who was calling her by an old name? She hadn't used that name since before she met Clint.

Blinking, she realized she couldn't focus. Not yet. Everything was blurry, including a large gray blob that refused to stay still. The voice came from the blob. "You certainly changed through the years. Grew into your purpose."

Natasha swallowed thickly, unable to do much about the cottony feel of her throat. "Who. . .?"

"Who I am matters not." The man seemed all too happy that she didn't remember him. "What matters is that I found you."

She forced herself to breathe as the voice caused her headache to pound. She flopped her head back on the metal table, lifting a hand to rub her forehead and finding she couldn't move. A satisfied laugh floated across the room. At the laugh, everything clicked.

He'd found her. The fear that had haunted her mind for days flooded into her chest, and she fought the restraints. But she could not move. The metal cuffs cut into her wrists, telling her they'd taken her Widow's Bites, and her ankles ached from the tightness. She stared down at her body, thankful that she still wore her black bodysuit but knowing that could change at any moment.

Seeing that fighting was useless, she sighed and dropped her head back again. "My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

"Is that all you will give me?" asked the man.

"My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

"Your name is Romanova. _Natalia_ Romanova." He moved into her vision, though she kept her eyes focused on the blob that had to be the ceiling. "And I created you."

"My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

A snarl came floating down at her at the reply. A moment later, a door opened and closed. Then, the pain started. Through it all, she held on to her mantra. "My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

She had lost track of time and how many questions they asked her when they abruptly dragged her from the table. By then, her legs had lost all sensation, and she could hardly walk. But her vision had cleared. She took note of the harsh fluorescent lighting, the crumbling cinderblock walls, and the stained tile. This facility was old and had fallen into disuse over the years. She was dragged down a flight of steps as the tingling in her legs faded into actual sensation, and she tried to get her feet under her. The guards seemed to take great delight in kicking her feet from beneath her and making her hit her knees. By the time they reached their destination, she had given up. Especially if they were taking her to another torture room.

They weren't. She heard the sound of a prison door opening, and she tumbled forward as the guards laughed. She landed on hard brick, unable to protect her head from banging into the floor as she fell. The headache had become debilitating, and she rolled onto her back and willed her stomach not to empty itself.

A flurry of movement nearby startled her. "Natasha!"

The voice was familiar. But she'd just been subjected to hours of pain. Out of pure instinct alone, she scrabbled away from the other person. "My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

After a long pause, the voice came again. "Natasha. It's me. Steve."

She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Steve?"

He nodded, crouched directly in front of her but not touching her. His blue eyes moved over her body and took in every bruise he could see. The sheer hatred on his face startled her, but she somehow knew it wasn't directed at her. He sighed. "Are you okay?"

A smile quirked her lips upward. "I will be." She scooted toward one wall, making room for him beside her. He sat down quickly, not needing another invitation, and she instantly curled into his side. He was warm, and that helped calm the shivering that began some time ago. She felt his arm move and, a moment later, it settled over her shoulders like a welcome blanket on a cold winter day. Somehow, with his presence, he'd calmed the fear in her gut.

For now, anyway. Natasha knew their problems were only beginning. She'd known it from the moment she woke up strapped to that table, and she hadn't needed the voice from the past or the restraints to realize what was happening. She'd just needed color.

The room was _red_.

~TBC


	9. I Know

**Author's Note:** Wow! I'm posting really early compared to the last several days!

I probably should have mentioned this before. But, like with "Long Time Comin'," I'm tying in some comic book canon into my own take on the movie canon. There are things that you'll start seeing in this chapter-and the next one-that come straight from the comics.

As always, hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think! Hope all of you are having a wonderful holiday! ~lg

oOo

Natasha woke to the sound of a slamming door and footsteps headed their way. She'd sat on the cold floor all night, curled into Steve's side as his heartbeat soothed the frazzled nerves brought on by the torture session. Her mind repeated her mantra in preparation for what was likely to come, and she resolved not to surrender to these people. She wasn't Natalia Romanova or the Black Widow that they wanted. She was Natasha Romanoff, SHIELD agent and woman who cared for her friends.

When she lifted her head, Steve met her eyes with a resolute gaze of his own and removed his arm from her shoulders. The footsteps grew louder, and he scrambled to get off the floor and onto one of the bunks before their captors saw them. He'd just settled on the thin mattress across the room, his gaze apologetic, as the guards came around the corner. With them came the man from the day before. As it had in the mall, his face caused a raging headache to slam into Natasha's skull, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She _knew_ him. But she couldn't _remember_ him. Just the sheer terror he stirred in her.

He laughed. "Yes, Natalia, I've returned."

"My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520." She murmured the words softly.

He just chuckled again and turned to Steve. "And who do we have here? Your partner? Hawkeye? That _is_ who the rumors say you've recruited into your schemes."

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Natasha caught his eye. She gave him a firm but quick shake of her head, and he snapped his mouth closed. Better she take the punishment than they discover that he was Captain America. They'd likely dissect him just to get at the serum in his blood.

The man at the door glanced at her again. "Who is he, Natalia?"

"My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520." She felt her mind slipping into that calm place where she went when faced with something beyond her ability to manipulate. The Black Widow had been bred to endure torture, but her creators had built in one minor flaw. The color red. She could handle it in small doses, but she rarely wore it and never liked it. Red—particularly that bloody shade—was her undoing. Only one other time had she come so close to it, and Clint had been there to anchor her in reality. It had taken her a month to recover fully from that, though she still had nightmares she couldn't quite place and snippets of conversations she'd never had in her life flicker through her mind at odd times.

The man at the door made a single motion with his head, and the guards opened it and stepped inside. Steve jumped to his feet, but Natasha shook her head again. Their captor chuckled. "You have him trained well, Natalia."

Steve snarled at the man. "I just know how to take orders and what's good for me."

The man laughed. "I will learn all about you, my friend. Do not fear. But, for now, I have other matters to attend."

The guards yanked Natasha to her feet, dragging her from the cell as she tried to prepare herself for what was to come. They were taking her back to that horrid room, the place of her unmaking. Fear unlike any she'd known in years welled up, and she fought the urge to beg for mercy. There would be no mercy where she was going. She just had to resist, had to find a way to stay Natasha Romanoff and the woman that Steve thought he knew. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him once again behind those bars, staring at her with big blue eyes that looked both angry and heartbroken. He understood what would happen to her, and he hated what it would mean when she was returned to that cell. But their captors also knew that she'd protect him. He had been taken to control her.

Natasha held his gaze until she was dragged out of the corridor, blinking in the bright light around her. Just as she disappeared, Steve began fighting. He'd listened to her while she was there, but his instincts had finally gotten the better of him. If Clint didn't find them soon, he'd do something that would get both of them hurt.

The doors to the room loomed closer, and Natasha closed her eyes as they pushed her through the door. The room was entirely red save for the metal table in the middle of it. The carpet hushed their footsteps, and the walls had been soundproofed. She knew because she'd been through this before. Fighting with everything in her, she managed to break free from her guards and kicked the feet out from under one of them. She couldn't let them strap her to the table! She couldn't go through this! Not again! She couldn't lose another man she loved to the Red Room!

A sharp jab in her neck burned as the sedative entered her bloodstream. She continued to fight but, like in Istanbul, everything shifted out of focus. She felt herself going under and struggled against it. "My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

Blackness closed in. When she woke again, she was strapped to the table, her body begging for relief from multiple bruises that healed quickly but not fast enough. There were fresh cuts on her face from her short fight, and the blobs that were people quickly defined themselves. They'd given her a much smaller dose this time. She rolled her head away from them. "My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

A new voice entered the conversation. "Yes, Agent Romanoff, we're aware of SHIELD's training in resisting torture."

Natasha's head snapped around, and she blinked up into a face she'd seen multiple times around the Helicarrier. The woman smiled. "Now that I have your attention, let's begin again."

oOo

Istanbul was foggy when the Avengers arrived. Clint cringed slightly as he set the Quinjet down through it. He was operating on instruments here, the humidity preventing him from seeing much of anything save vague shapes of warehouses as the plane descended from the sky. After Fury and McNeil expressed such firm trust in him, he'd taken matters into his own hands, dismissing their pilot and announcing that Stark would fly with the jet and not on his own. The billionaire protested loudly with everything that was said until they arrived in Istanbul. Clint smirked once the plane touched down. "Happy now, Stark?"

Stark blinked at the fog. "I had no idea."

"Yeah, and we wouldn't want you to flatten yourself against one of those buildings," Clint muttered as he unbuckled from his seat. "That suit of yours might come in handy."

Thor peered out the windows. "Is it always this. . .dim?"

"In the winter, yeah." Clint waited for the men to back away so he could stand. "The humidity's pretty high today, and the temp's low. Which likely means snow. If _that_ happens, we need to get outta here fast."

Thor frowned. "Why?"

"Because, if you thought the snow in New York was bad, you have no idea what bad really is." Clint pointed outside. "That fog isn't enough to slow down city traffic right now. If it starts snowing, it just might."

None of the other men commented as he walked out the back of the Quinjet and into the cold. It was only about forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit outside, but the mugginess made it a touch colder. At least, to Clint. Of course, that could be because he wore his sleeveless uniform without a jacket. If they got into trouble, he wanted to be able to fight his way out.

The temperature inside the warehouse was quite a bit warmer. Clint looked around, noting the absence of anything save broken crates and an old trash can lid. Dirty windows turned the light a golden color, and shadows only half-hid their secrets. Trash blew through the area as the Avengers entered the room, and Stark sniffed inside his suit. "Nice place."

Clint glared at him. "Let's take a look around."

The four men spread out. Thor, having no idea what to look for, just circled the perimeter and listened for any sign of someone approaching their position. Bruce kept his eyes glued to the ground, flashlight in hand, as Stark obviously scanned the area using his suit. Clint located a rusted ladder leading to a catwalk and quickly climbed it. It felt good to be back in the field, to be doing something even if that was trying to locate their missing agents. Hill had already begun the face trace on the Helicarrier, but, so far, Steve and Natasha's captors had been careful. That worried Clint more than a little. If someone knew enough about SHIELD to avoid any and all cameras. . . .He pushed the thought away.

From the catwalk, he had a good view of the area. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the tire tracks into and out of the warehouse. This place wasn't used for much, and he was grateful for the thick layer of dust. It clearly outlined the movement patterns of those who had come to the meet. Aksoy had brought the vehicle, along with three bodyguards. Natasha had arrived alone, her footsteps clear from the door. Sometime later, three. . .four more people joined the meet, and then someone—likely Steve—ran into the center of the room from the just below the ladder Clint had climbed. Odds were good that it was Steve who used the trash can lid to disarm a few people. The center of the room, where the fight took place, was a hopeless mangle of smudges and footprints.

Bruce suddenly doubled over and picked up a piece of debris. "Hey, guys." He held up his finding, and Clint cursed. Even from this distance, he recognized a hypodermic needle. Bruce looked up to the catwalk and met his gaze. "There's still something in it."

Clint nodded. "Bag it. We'll take it back to the carrier and identify it."

As Bruce produced a plastic bag and dropped the syringe into it, Clint watched Stark duck under the catwalk. A moment later, the billionaire spoke. "Hey, Legolas, get down here."

Clint moved to the ladder and half climbed, half slid down it. He joined Stark and felt his heart sink as he did. The billionaire knelt next to a pool of blood.

oOo

Back on the Helicarrier, Clint left Stark and Bruce in the lab while he reported in to Fury. They'd found the syringe and the blood, took samples of both and detailed photographs of the crime scene. But the entire warehouse complex was abandoned, which was why Natasha had chosen it for the meet. And that worried Clint. _Nat_ had asked for and received the meet with Aksoy. That meant one of two things. Either Aksoy had betrayed her, or someone within SHIELD was working for the enemy. As he voiced these concerns to Fury, the director listened and then promised to get someone working the internal angle right away. Clint walked out of the office, thankful that he didn't have to manage that as well. He wasn't sure he could investigate an internal breach after he'd been so recently compromised.

Instead of hovering, Clint forced himself to head to the target range. He spent the next hour putting arrows into targets while giving Bruce and Stark the room to work. Both men had said they'd contact him as soon as they knew something, and Clint trusted that they'd do their jobs. He emptied a quiver and then, after collecting his arrows, found Thor lounging in the mess hall. Pouring a cup of their strong coffee—almost as strong as he liked it—he joined the Asgardian in the wait.

Thor eyed him. "You are worried."

Clint snorted at the obvious opening. "Yeah." He sipped the lukewarm coffee. "Nat's got some things in her past. . . ." He shook his head. "Let's just say what your brother did to me is actually pretty close to what she's been through. Only our techniques aren't as refined as his were."

Thor narrowed his eyes. "I was unaware that your world had the ability to control another."

"Control, no." Clint shrugged. "And yes. It's called brainwashing here, Thor, and it can be done to someone willingly or unwillingly. In Natasha's case. . . ."

Thor met his eyes. "She is strong. She will fight it."

"I know." Clint decided to be perfectly honest. "And that's what concerns me."

The two men lapsed into silence until Bruce asked them to come to his lab. They found Stark hovering over a computer with a complex chemical compound on the screen, muttering to himself and lamenting the absence of JARVIS. He glanced up when Clint and Thor entered, but he didn't turn from his work.

Bruce met them across the room, at another computer. "I got a preliminary DNA analysis back," he said softly, his focus on Clint.

The archer nodded. "Okay. What's it say?"

Bruce shrugged with one shoulder. "Well, the blood's human, and there's a match in the system. It'll take another day to get definitive results."

Clint shook his head. "We don't have another day, Doc."

Bruce agreed silently and turned the screen so he could see. Clint cursed. The image that stared back to him was one of the agents that Erickson had treated—the man who had gone AWOL after resigning from SHIELD and leaving his wife. A man that Clint had "helped" Loki "recruit" into their cause. He met Bruce's eyes. "You're sure?"

"As sure as I can be," Bruce replied.

Clint cursed a second time. "Doc, you realize this guy's probably dead, right? That there was too much blood left in Istanbul for him to be alive."

Bruce nodded. "I know."

Clint ran a hand over his face, thinking. Why would a former SHIELD agent be in Istanbul, working with whomever had captured Natasha and Steve? Unless he was working for the enemy. Clint turned and reached for a computer. His access code wouldn't work, though, and he nearly growled as he strode from the lab. He went directly to the bridge and walked over to Hill. "I need everything you have on Agent James Saddler." As she began working to compile the file, he frowned. "And get my access reinstated. I need to build a file on this guy myself."

Hill nodded, not taking offense to his growled words as her hands flew over the computer screen. She glanced at him. "Try your access code now."

Clint typed his password in and smiled slightly as he was able to access the computers. "Thanks." He took the empty seat and ignored Hill as she walked away. He needed to track this guy's movements, and he needed to do it now. Somehow, James Saddler knew—or had known—what was about to happen with Natasha, and Clint intended to learn what that was.

oOo

The hours after Natasha was taken dragged by, and Steve took to pacing the cell while resisting the urge to punch the wall. The dim light worked on him, making him wish for sunlight and warmth. But the cold seeped into his bones, slower than average but ever present.

He should have fought! He should have listened to his instincts and taken out the three guards. They were no match for him. His enhanced strength and reflexes allowed him to fight even without his shield. But something had stopped him. _Someone_ had stopped him.

They didn't know who he was. That thought wasn't as much of a comfort as it should have been. He was content to play Hawkeye for a while, making up stuff about a circus he'd never been in, if it helped Natasha get through this. But the reality was that they would eventually get the answers from her. Steve didn't know Natasha like Barton did. He couldn't put together the pieces of her life and keep her from shattering.

Thinking of last night made his heart clench, and he smacked one of the bars with his open palm. It stung, but he ignored it. When Natasha had been thrown into the cell, his heart had broken a little. Her beautiful skin was covered in newly-formed bruises, and her lip bled from a cut on the side. But it was the weak way she'd lifted herself from the ground, as if she had no strength left, that concerned him. Then, when she scrabbled away from him while stating her name, rank, and serial number, he'd wanted to be sick. This wasn't just torture. For a woman as strong as Natasha Romanoff to lose touch with reality. . . .Steve shook his head. He couldn't even imagine what she must be going through.

But he'd learned his lesson from Barton. Instead of asking questions, he simply and quietly assured her of who he was. And he waited. She had invited him into her world after that, and Steve figured out that Natasha responded best when given her own space. It was a powerful lesson, one he wouldn't forget for the rest of his life—however long or short that might be. No matter what happened, he'd be right here, with her, until the Avengers found them.

_I know what it's like to have someone override your own will, tell you what to think, what to believe, what to do. And to believe it's your own will, your own thoughts, and your own beliefs._ Natasha's words from six months ago, when she'd first found Steve in the Helicarrier's gym and asked him to help Barton, echoed in his mind now. She _knew_. She realized what was coming and had fought it in the only way that she could. By restating her name, rank, and serial number, she was affirming her identity to herself.

Steve cursed, a rare occurrence for him. But this situation—this completely messed up mission that should have waited until someone more qualified than he was could have been Natasha's backup—certainly warranted a little profanity. The _only_ advantage they had right now was that these guys had no idea who he was. He understood why Natasha ordered him to be quiet, and he resolved not to let that bit of information slip out. It was the only way he could stand by her.

As time crept by, Steve paced and wondered what she was going through. Last night—or yesterday morning, telling time was fluid in a place like this—Natasha said she'd be okay. But he knew the lie for what it was. This wasn't just a tight spot during a mission that Natasha could escape after receiving physical injuries. She faced the absolute destruction of everything she'd known. It frightened him that he could lose yet another woman he'd come to care about so strongly. Clenching his jaw, Steve allowed himself to think of those emotions, of how he felt for Natasha and what he would do if she couldn't resist this new indoctrination. If she became this Natalia that had been mentioned. He would tear the world apart to get her back.

Dropping onto one of the bunks, he leaned his head against the wall. Yes, he loved her. Loved her in a way that he hadn't loved a woman save Peggy. Even then, he couldn't really compare the two. He and Peggy had lost their chance in the war. It stung even now to think that he should be in the final stages of his life, perhaps holding the hand of a woman he'd married seventy years ago. But he'd had no choice but to crash that plane, and that sacrifice meant the end of what he could have shared with Peggy. Then, Natasha entered his life. When they first met, he picked up on the intrigue she had about him but held himself in check. It wasn't until they'd been sent to retrieve Trish Starr that he allowed himself to care. During that week they'd reconned Trish's safe house and had plotted her escape, he and Natasha had come to an understanding about one another. He didn't approve of some of her tactics, and she didn't like his idealism. They were polar opposites. But they were both human, both lonely. He'd seen that loneliness—the woman who _wanted_ to be loved the way Barney Barton loved Trish Starr—underneath the tough exterior that Natasha portrayed. Steve suspected Clint Barton also saw it and loved her in his own way, a way that wasn't the same thing that Natasha wanted. _Some people make better friends than lovers._ People like Natasha and Barton weren't cut out for the kind of life that Steve wanted. They didn't have children and live happily ever after.

Could Steve give that up? If that was what it took to get Natasha through all of this, could he surrender his own desires for the family he could have had in the forties with Peggy? It wasn't fair to Natasha or himself to hold either of them to expectations from seventy years ago. Back then, women thought differently. A woman like Natasha, who had been trained from a young life to murder and destroy, didn't see children as a blessing. They saw children as tools, leverage to get someone else to do what they wanted. That kind of cold ruthlessness shook Steve as he realized just why Natasha shied away from any of his advances. She knew what his expectations were and couldn't give them to him. So, she'd distanced herself, had resisted anything that would lead herself down that path while still enjoying his company. That he'd put her in that sort of conflict hurt more than he could understand.

He'd been so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't hear footsteps approaching. "Well, well, well." The voice yanked him back to the present. "If it isn't Captain America himself. The idol of the United States."

Steve slowly stood to his feet to study the man standing in front of him. Wearing black turtleneck sweater and black slacks, the man stared back, his dark eyes sparkling with vengeful mirth. His long thin face had sharp features and a salt-and-pepper goatee. Steve stood in front of him with his feet shoulder-width apart and his arms folded across his chest. "How'd you know?"

The man's smirk twisted his features. He glanced over his shoulder as two guards literally drug Natasha between them. "A little spider told me."

Steve stared at Natasha's form, her head hanging and her hair covering her face. She clenched her fists, visibly trembling as she was tossed unceremoniously into the cell. Steve rushed to catch her, not wanting her to be harmed by flopping on the cold ground. As his arms closed around her body and he kept her from falling, the man chuckled. "So honorable," he murmured. "Do not worry, my dear captain. I will get to you soon enough."

Steve glared as the man left, his arms tightening around Natasha as he eased her to the ground in her corner. She muttered under her breath, stating her name, rank, and serial number, as she looked at him. Her eyes were dull, lacking the life that typically sparkled in her beautiful face. That face now sported two black eyes and several cuts, but the bruises from last night looked to be healing quickly. When she met his eyes, tears started trickling down her face. "I'm sorry."

Steve blinked at her. "What?"

"I told them." She let out a shuddering breath as she curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her legs and burying her face in her knees. "I couldn't help it. I told them about you."

Steve truly wanted to give her space to recover, but he couldn't let this go. He settled on the ground next to her and put his arms around the ball she'd made. "It's okay," he whispered into her hair, ignoring the stench of the cell and the inevitable torture she'd gone through. "I understand."

She wept silently, the only evidence the occasional sniffle and the shaking of her shoulders. The entire time, Steve kept her close to his body and vowed to destroy this place. He just needed to get loose, and then Captain America wouldn't be so golden anymore.

~TBC


	10. I Promise You

**Author's Note:** Again, there's a lot of comic book canon in this chapter, particularly in relation to Natasha's past. Oh, and after a comment from my husband who reads but doesn't review online, I've revised a lot of this chapter and the coming ones. Hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

**jessica:** LOL! Every story has its ending, but there are a few more chapters left. :) And I'm already working on a Bourne series story starring Renner's character of Aaron Cross as well as a Clint/OC story to follow this one. :)

As always, I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas! ~lg

oOo

Mrs. Beth Saddler lived in one of New York's brownstone homes, the street tree-lined and showing signs of family life. The file said that she and James had no children, though not for lack of trying. Mrs. Saddler had miscarried three times before she and her husband began looking into adoption. They'd saved for years and, just when they had enough to pursue it, SHIELD sent James on the mission that destroyed his mind.

Clint stepped out of the dark sedan he'd driven to the house, thankful he'd been allowed to come alone. This would be a difficult meeting for both of them. Not only would he have to explain to a woman that her husband was likely dead, but he'd have to face yet another person Loki had harmed. This time, though, things were different. This time, Loki's victim was a civilian, a woman who had done nothing save marrying a man who worked for SHIELD.

Pushing aside those thoughts, Clint adjusted his knee-length wool coat and walked purposefully up the steps. SHIELD's cover in the world, particularly for agents on a mission such as his, was that they were a branch of the FBI. He had dressed the part, right down to the black tie perfectly knotted and the black wool coat. He wore the obligatory shoulder holster, though he doubted he'd even need the sidearm it held.

After knocking, Clint rocked back on his heels and waited. A few moments later, movement through the frosted glass window next to the door told him Beth Saddler had arrived. She answered the door, holding back a very curious dog, and frowned. "Yes?"

Clint smiled. "Mrs. Saddler, I'm Agent Clint Barton, FBI." He showed the badge he carried at all times. "I have a few questions concerning your husband."

She eyed him suspiciously before nodding. "Just a minute." After she closed the door, her voice could be heard urging the pup into another room in the house. Within five minutes, she'd returned and let him into the house. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Millie's friendly, but she likes to dominate everyone's attention."

"That's no problem." He followed her into a living room that flowed into the kitchen. The space was bright and airy in spite of the cold temperatures outside. A blue and white motif carried through both rooms, with more blue in the living area and white in the kitchen. Clint perched on the edge of the couch she motioned him toward and ignored the overabundance of knickknacks and throw pillows. "Thank you for taking the time to talk with me."

Beth was a petite woman with dark hair that flopped around her face. She looked tired and, when she smiled, it was strained. She met his eyes. "You said you're FBI?" she asked. "Or did you mean SHIELD?" When Clint blinked, genuinely surprised, she waved a hand. "James told me about it before he left. What I want to know is why it took SHIELD a _month_ to do anything!"

Clint braced his elbows on his knees, trying to change his tactics. "Yes, I'm with SHIELD," he admitted softly. "And I can't say why it took us a month to get this far. I've only been back for a few days."

She laughed, but it wasn't a good laugh. "Oh, that's great! They send the _new guy_ to talk to me."

"I didn't say I was new," Clint replied with a firm tone. "Mrs. Saddler, your husband wasn't the only one who was. . .compromised."

"Compromised? Is that what you call it when a family's entire _world_ is torn apart?" She glared at him. "We were planning on having _children_, Agent Barton! Talking about adopting and being able to _mean_ it for the first time in _years_! Then, whatever happened in Manhattan happened, my husband came home a shell of the man he was, and he. . .He just fell apart! Left me and took the money we'd saved for our baby!"

Clint swallowed thickly, his own issues shortly after Loki's capture coming to mind. He wanted to comfort her, to say something that would make it all better, but he couldn't. He knew that words were meaningless. So, he sat and let her talk.

"Do you even _know_ what it's like to have someone you love fall apart? To disappear?" Beth asked.

Clint's gaze, which had been focused on his hands, flew to her's. "Yes," he answered bluntly. "Mrs. Saddler, there were others. . . ._I_ was there when it happened. I _know_ what it did to your husband because it did the same thing to me."

She stared at him, her face crumbling even more. "Oh!" She shook her head. "I didn't. . . .I'm sorry. . . ."

He reached across the coffee table and caught her hand, holding it as if it were Natasha's hand. "It's okay," he said softly as he met her eyes. "Mrs. Saddler, the reason I'm here _now_ is because we need your help to find your husband. Of everyone who went through this, I know what he's thinking." _I hope_, he added silently.

She held his hand as if it were her only lifeline to reality. "What do you need to know?"

Clint slowly released her hand. "Was your husband seeing anyone for his issues? A psychologist?"

She nodded. "Yes. A woman from SHIELD. Doctor. . .uh. . . ."

"Erickson?"

"Yes!" Beth's eyes widened. "You know her?"

Clint's heart sank. "Yeah, I know her."

"Well, she told James that he needed to accept what was done and move on. To take responsibility for his actions." She drew in a shaky breath. "He tried! He honestly tried, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that someone named Loki was watching him all the time. He had dreams, nightmares that woke the neighborhood. And, every time he went to see the psychologist, he became more and more distant. I thought he was just going through a phase, but he said she wanted to meet with me, too. That counseling the entire family was necessary for James to fully recover."

"What did she tell you?"

"That he needed his space." Beth shrugged. "He needed time to do his own thing and reestablish his own identity. So, I gave it to him. I tried not to ask when he was out late, when he came home drunk, or when he didn't come home at all. I really, really tried!" She paused for a moment to pull herself together. "The night he left, we had an argument. He didn't want to adopt anymore. He wanted to take the money and go to Russia. Said he wanted to give me a vacation to remember. I didn't want that and told him. He stormed out and. . . ." She shook her head, tears once again flowing down her face. "He never came back! I thought I'd pushed him away! I thought. . . .Then, I got a call from the bank. He'd withdrawn every cent in our account—everything!"

Clint once again reached across the coffee table and took her hand. He sat silently while she wept, frozen in indecision. Women and tears didn't mix well with his line of work, and he wanted nothing more than to run out of that room. Something about Beth's story concerned him, and he tried not to show his alarm to her.

Beth lifted her head, her eyes red and her voice weak. "I'm sorry." She let go of his hand and reached for a tissue. "I just want him to come home."

Once again, Clint didn't know what to say. He knew James Saddler couldn't be alive, not with the amount of blood they'd found. But he didn't want to announce that to the man's wife. Not for the first time, he understood why Coulson had considered leaving SHIELD in order to be with his cellist.

As Beth again gained control over her emotions, she met his eyes. "Promise me you'll bring him home."

Clint blinked at the steel in her voice. The house bore no Christmas decorations, and he realized she was waiting for a man who would likely never be returned to her. Not alive. But he did resolve to bring some sort of closure to her. "I'll do my best," he promised.

She nodded and, after another emotional moment, Clint stood and let her walk him to the door. On the porch, he turned to offer a card with his number on it should Beth think of anything else she could add. She stood just inside the house, gripping the door as if it was the only thing keeping her safe. Her eyes sought out his, and she spoke one final time. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Clint considered lying to her for a brief second but remembered how angry he'd been when Natasha wouldn't tell him about Coulson. Instead, he nodded and said in a very soft voice, "We believe so."

Beth whimpered at the news. "I thought so," she said brokenly. "I just. . .I knew."

Clint didn't say anything else as the door closed. But his keen hearing picked up the wail that came from the other side. He forced himself to breathe, to push past the trauma of his own experiences with Loki to make a promise to a grieving widow. He _would_ find James Saddler's killers. And he would bring them to justice.

oOo

Once on the Quinjet and bound for the Helicarrier, Clint called Stark and found the billionaire only so happy to turn the serum over to Bruce and start tracking the Saddlers' money. The heartbreak on Beth Saddler's face as she admitted to the theft touched somewhere deep inside Clint, and he resolved to return a portion of the money to her. It wouldn't heal the hurt—not by a long shot. But it would be a bit of justice.

Ending the call, Clint leaned his head back and struggled to keep focused on the investigation. This wasn't about his issues with Loki. This was about two members of his team—two of his _friends—_missing. He needed to find both Steve and Natasha. He couldn't lose another friend, much less two. Not now. Not when things were finally starting to look bright for his future.

Back on the Helicarrier, Clint found Thor waiting for him. The two men headed for the bridge. Once there, Clint found an unused computer terminal and began a face trace. It would take quite some time, but he had other ways of filling his hours while he waited. Using SHIELD's impressive reach, he quietly examined financial documents, bank accounts, utility bills, and anything else that helped him build a file on a target. When he finished, he stood and looked for Fury. He'd left the Saddler home with suspicions about Joan Erickson that couldn't wait, and his research confirmed them. The woman had obviously messed up more than a few patients, and Clint wanted to see her pay for that. But he also wanted to help the men she'd destroyed. There had to be a way for him to track down everyone affected by Loki's mind control and help them recover. The compassion was new, but he felt such release following the realization that he wasn't to blame that he couldn't stand another person actually believing that as well.

Fury met him at the conference table, accompanied by Bruce. "Agent Barton. How did your meeting go?"

Clint blew out a deep breath. "Not good. Mrs. Saddler knew her husband was SHIELD, and she knew he was dead. The former because he told her, the latter. . . ." Clint shrugged. "Instinct."

Fury nodded. "Did she say anything about his whereabouts for the last month?"

"Nothing." Clint shook his head. "She didn't know a thing, just that he drained their entire savings account and took off. I've got Stark tracking the money. Hopefully we'll find something that way."

Bruce, who had listened quietly, shifted on his feet. "Well, I found something." He met Clint's eyes and then Fury's, his gaze flickering around for a brief moment. "The serum in that needle was a sedative—a very _powerful_ sedative. It possibly could have taken down The Other Guy with a high enough dose. If that's the case. . . ."

Clint's heart sank. "Then it definitely would have taken down Steve and Natasha."

"Yeah." Bruce narrowed his eyes, focusing on Clint. "Why would they have something that strong on them?"

Clint waved that question away for a moment. "Did you learn anything else?"

"Yeah. The serum isn't the same as the one we have on record, but its chemical composition is similar to one used by a now-defunct KGB program." Bruce watched both Fury and Clint tense. "What?"

Clint turned to Hill. "I need the bridge cleared of all nonessential personnel. And get Tony Stark up here."

Fury nodded. "Do it."

Clint whirled to face Bruce. "You're _certain_ the composition's Russian?"

"Yes."

Clint cursed and paced a few steps away. He still wore the suit and wool coat he'd used in New York, and he was now grateful for the extra protection. The chill that went down his spine was born from dread for what Natasha had been enduring during the last forty-eight hours. By the time they found her, it would be a lot longer, and he couldn't know if she'd be the same woman he'd known for twenty years.

Stark rushed into the bridge. "What happened? Hill said it was urgent."

"It is." Clint sent a grateful glance toward Hill, thanking her for making the request seem urgent enough that Stark didn't launch into his customary complaining. "I think I know who has Steve and Natasha."

Bruce blinked. "Because of the serum?"

"Yeah." Clint glowered at the table. "When I met Natasha, she was freelance and lost. She'd just left a program—she wouldn't say where—and struck out on her own. Over the years, I got to know her a bit better, had a short relationship with her, and learned the truth." He raised his eyes and met Stark's, Thor's, and Bruce's gazes in turn. "Natasha's a super soldier. She was 'created' by the Black Widow Program out of the Red Room facility in Moscow. A good portion of their work with her, outside of giving her their version of Dr. Erskine's formula, involved brainwashing. She has scattered memories of things that never happened, but, shortly before leaving the Red Room and becoming Natasha Romanoff, her memories were wiped. The only things she knows to be truth about her life start twenty years ago."

Thor stared, dumbfounded, while Stark's mouth flapped. The billionaire held up a hand. "Wait. You're telling me that you're the _only_ human on this team? That the rest of us have an advantage over you in some form or fashion?"

Clint tipped his head slightly, acknowledging the statement without encouraging that line of questioning. He focused back on the problem. "The Red Room went under shortly after Natasha's departure, but there's still a remnant of it out there. SHIELD has tracked it for quite some time without her knowledge, but I don't know what they know now."

Fury took over. "They call themselves 2R. And, until just this moment, I thought they were a fringe group with no way to become a threat to us."

Bruce slowly settled into a chair. "Well, if they've got both Steve and Natasha, they're a significant threat now. If they've got the ability to create a serum that takes down Captain America, they can likely reverse engineer a super soldier serum from his blood alone. That's if they don't. . . .Uh. . . ." He glanced around.

Fury picked up on what he was saying. "They'll dissect him to get to it."

Stark cursed while Clint and Thor glared at no one in particular. "Where are we with finding them?"

Fury looked at Hill, who answered immediately. "There are two known 2R facilities in Siberia. Unfortunately, they're mostly underground, and we've been unable to get an agent inside either one. Nor will satellite footage help as they're always careful to keep up appearances."

Clint shifted in his seat, glancing at Fury. "Sir, there's more."

Fury nodded. "Let's hear it."

"Mrs. Saddler said that her husband was seeing Dr. Erickson." Clint tilted his head to one side. "Since her departure from SHIELD, she's fallen off the face of the planet. We _know_ Saddler was involved in taking down both Natasha and Steve. We have his blood at the scene. If he took his family's savings to help finance 2R, there should be a trail somewhere. And, since Erickson was treating him, she may likely be involved with 2R as well."

Fury sighed. "It's a possibility."

"Sir, with all due respect, I think it's more than a possibility." Clint met the director's eyes. "She wanted to hypnotize me. If she hypnotized any of the other agents she treated, she could have successfully brainwashed them over time. A simple post-hypnotic suggestion would have been all it took to get the ball rolling. Saddler may not have left of his own free will."

Fury turned to Stark. "How close are you on tracing that money?"

Stark waved a hand. "JARVIS is working on it. By the time we fly to Siberia, we should have everything we need to bury these guys and bring our people home." He looked at Clint meaningfully. "_All_ of them home."

Fury nodded. "Good." He pushed back from the table. "Agent Barton, the Quinjet you flew to Istanbul is fueled and ready to go. You leave for Siberia as soon as you're able."

Clint stood and looked at the other three men. "Good." Then, with a slight grin, he used the same instruction he'd been given six months ago by one Steve Rogers. "Suit up."

oOo

Steve held Natasha through the long night, absorbing her trembling and trying to warm her to the best of his ability. He'd never seen her so broken, and it concerned him that someone as strong as Natasha Romanoff could be brought to this level. Her mind clearly wasn't all that sound right now, and she kept quoting her name, rank, and serial number. Almost as if she needed to remind herself who she was.

She also talked during that night. She told him about Alexie Shostakov, her husband. She'd married him after having it arranged through Petrovitch—the face she'd recognized in New York and now remembered—and lost him to a flight training accident. He'd been a Soviet test pilot, and she later learned that the Red Room had him killed. She spoke of him softly, in a tone that indicated she'd loved him dearly. Steve listened, willing to hold her tightly while she grieved for someone who had been dead for twenty years. He imagined that Natasha, young and hurting, had welcomed the Red Room's techniques at the time.

The only indication that morning had come was the lights being turned on and the approach of footsteps. The guards barged into the cell before Steve could disentangle himself from Natasha and forcefully dragged her away. He saw her eyes as she looked back at him, and the sheer terror would keep him awake for nights on end. He surged forward, knocking one of the three guards into the bars. The man fell, and the one not physically dragging a weakened Natasha out of the cell drew some sort of weapon. Before Steve could get to him, the tranquilizer dart had embedded itself in his neck. The massive dose burned as the room grew fuzzy around the edges.

He woke sometime later, on the cold floor and needing heat. More tired than he ever could have imagined, Steve slid into the corner he shared with Natasha, his head leaned against the stone wall as he shivered at the loss of body heat that she had put off. She had warmed him just as much as he'd tried to give her warmth. It was a welcoming thought that they worked so well together. But Steve's mind couldn't focus on the good right now. The woman he loved was in the hands of a psychopath, and he couldn't do a thing about it. Now that he'd been revealed as Captain America, the guards came in force. They feared him, now, and with good reason. His feelings for Natasha made him dangerous, though he realized that anything he did to them could make things worse for her. Not that they could get much worse. They referred to her as Natalia, and Petrovitch always looked at him with such glee.

But he couldn't just sit here, not like he'd done for the last several days. Pushing his stiff body out of it's corner, he began pacing the cell to get his blood pumping. He'd never truly been a prisoner of war, though he had freed quite a few. The only reason he had not fought until now was because _Natasha_ asked him not to. Things had changed. Now that he knew the truth of who held them captive, he would get them out of here and back to New York. If anyone could help Natasha cope, it would be Barton, and, between himself and Barton, they'd bring her back. They had to. Anything less, and Steve's world would unravel again. He wasn't certain he could handle that.

The realization of just what Natasha meant to him struck him as ironic, and he smirked. Dropping onto his hands for push-ups, he began a light calisthenics routine to keep himself limber. He'd just _had_ to realize he loved Natasha Romanoff in a Red Room prison cell, with no idea where they were or if help was even coming. Just like he'd realized how much he'd loved Peggy right as his plane went down. Oh, he'd known the feelings he had for her were deep, but the truth—the _full_ truth—hadn't hit him until that moment when she told him he wouldn't be alone. _What is it with me and life-or-death situations that show how much I care for women?_

The day passed predictably, with no activity outside of Steve's physical training. By the time Natasha was returned to the cell, he'd managed to work through his anger and into the determination phase of his escape plan. He needed to watch, to learn the weaknesses of their guards. Unfortunately, he didn't think Natasha had that much time.

She barely lifted her head when the guards threw her into the cell while three others held tranquilizer guns on him. As before, Steve caught her, much to their amusement, and he frowned when she groaned in pain. Her head fell back on his arm, and his heart dropped. Her face was a mass of new and healing bruises, the original ones no longer showing. The cuts from yesterday had been reopened, and he saw the outline of a woman's ring in one of them.

She cracked her eyes open as the guards left and looked at him. "Shoulder!"

Steve blinked at the whimper and then moved to examine her arms. Her left arm hung limply at her side, and he quickly realized someone had dislocated her shoulder. "You want me to put it back in?"

She nodded with a clenched jaw.

Steve blew out a deep breath and gently laid her on the floor. Once in position, he glanced at her face once again to find her watching him. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

As carefully as possible, he maneuvered her shoulder back into its socket. Her face scrunched in pain when he first moved her arm, and she wasn't able to stop the short shout that escaped as he put it back. Steve quickly crossed her arm over her chest and lifted her, cradling her against his body as he held her arm in place. Her breathing had quickened, and she used that to work through the agony. When that slowed, he asked, "Anything else?"

She shook her head, her short hair brushing his jaw. Shifting around, Steve scooted his back against the wall, positioning Natasha next to him with her back against his side and chest. He kept his arms around her, allowing her to relax while still holding her injured arm in place. As soon as he stopped moving, she dropped her head back on his shoulder. "I was looking forward to Christmas this year."

Her soft words caused his heart to clench again. He sighed. "Yeah, me, too."

"I drew Thor's name," she admitted. "Know what he wanted?" She waited until Steve shook his head. "A gift for Jane. That's it. How sweet is it that he just wanted to make her happy?"

Steve understood the sentiment. Though, in his case, making Natasha happy meant taking her back to New York. He tightened his hold. "We'll get back there," he promised.

She opened her eyes and stared up at him, her head at an awkward angle. "You think so?"

The question didn't bother him because these were pretty hopeless circumstances. But the doubt in her voice almost broke his heart. "I promise." He propped his chin on the top of her head. "I'll get you home for Christmas."

She hummed as she shifted in place. "Sounds good."

They were silent the rest of the night, Natasha sleeping restlessly against him as her body healed itself. Steve never slept, though. His mind was too full of ideas for getting both of them out of here. She wasn't the only one who had looked forward to Christmas, though hearing her talk about it in a semi-normal tone of voice gave him hope for her survival. For _their_ survival.

As the lights came on for yet another day, Steve nudged Natasha awake and helped her sit up. Her arm, stiff from being held in place overnight, seemed to have healed up nicely. One day, he'd ask her about it. But, for now, he needed to give her something else to focus on. "Natasha, listen. We'll be home for Christmas. I promise!"

The guards ripped her away then, two moving into the cell with syringes of that serum. Steve attacked without warning, his body already having metabolized yesterday's dose. He managed to break the guy's wrist, sending the syringe across the floor. A quick kick nudged it down the hole intended as a toilet, and the guards howled in frustration. One got in a good punch, just enough to loosen Steve's hold on Natasha but not enough to distract him. While the man dragged her out of the room, three more ran in to subdue Steve. He fought, disarming them easily, until one of the new guards produced yet another syringe of serum. This time, he wasn't able to kick it down the toilet, and he felt the injection burn even as he sent that particular guard flying into the prison cells. The man dropped, unconscious or dead. Steve ignored the twinge in his gut, a moment when his anger overrode the morality that made him Captain America. He spun as more guards rushed into the room, overpowering him with sheer numbers and his weakened condition. He fought until that serum blurred his vision and brought him down. When he woke, the bodies had been removed, and he had been shackled to "his" bunk.

~TBC


	11. I'll Be Home

**Author's Note:** Big thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed! This chapter underwent some significant revisions just prior to posting due to both my husband and my beta giving me gentle nudges toward character development. A big thanks to **Lithane** for his encouragement and ideas and excitement. And to **theicemenace** for being willing to point out that my original chapter was rather weak!

Also, this will be the last posting until Monday. My Sundays are typically hectic, and adding in the need to edit and post the final chapter of this story is just a bit too much. :)

**jessica:** Yep, an Aaron Cross story! LOL! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Hope you have a merry Christmas! Let me know what you think! ~lg

oOo

Natasha's head hung as the guards dragged her to the cell she shared with Steve. Her throat was raw from the screams she'd been unable to contain, and her frame trembled in pain. The Red Room knew just how to find her weaknesses, and they exploited that without shame. Right now, her feet throbbed in spite of the boots they'd forced back on them. She couldn't have walked even if it was possible.

The jail cell opened, and Natasha didn't even look up. Steve would catch her. He always caught her. Through this—and the last months with Clint being gone—he was there, supporting her, encouraging her, listening to her, and making her fall in love with him. And _that_ was a weakness the Red Room could _not_ find out about.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, her head connected with the ground. She wasn't able to stop the groan of pain as white light exploded behind her eyes. Squeezing her eyes closed against the pain, she forced herself not to cry. Why wasn't Steve there? She heard someone moving about in the cell, and she blinked her eyes open as the cell door slammed shut. And her heart sank.

Steve stared at her from the thin bunk, his eyes filled with regret as he strained against the shackles that held him back. He'd been working on them for a while because his wrists bled from the bite of the metal. For a long moment, Natasha simply held his gaze. Then, cold and hurting and craving any sort of comfort, she crawled toward his bunk. The corner was better, but he couldn't get there. And, right now, she needed his warmth more than she needed the security of having a corner at her back.

Climbing onto the thin bunk, she smiled slightly when Steve scooted about to make room for her. He could sit up comfortably, and he lifted his chin so she could tuck her head beneath it. They spent the night on that bunk, both taking the comfort where they could.

oOo

With Christmas a week away, Clint flew the Quinjet over Europe and into Russian airspace. The plane was outfitted with the same retinal reflection panels as the Helicarrier and escaped notice by flying under radar. The jet's supersonic capabilities meant it passed overhead without much sound, and most thought a plane had just flown a touch too low. In the pilot's chair, Clint stared out the front window, half his mind focused on flying and the other half focused on finding his teammates.

Natasha had always held a special place in his life. Their history, including their romance, spanned enough years that he called her the oldest friend he had. He'd been completely truthful with Steve about the nature of their relationship. He considered Natasha family, and things would never cross into any kind of arena besides that. To lose her on the heels of losing Coulson, though. . . .Clint didn't think he could handle that.

Steve, however, was a different story. While he didn't know the super soldier well, Steve was still a friend. Clint recognized the warmth as something Coulson always had, and he couldn't help but see the irony. For years, Coulson had idolized Captain America, and now Clint—his protege—would _rescue_ Captain America.

The other members of the team were silent as he flew. Even Stark realized when to shut up this time and didn't make any comments one way or another. He did keep working on the money trail, however, and an occasional murmured comment to JARVIS could be heard. Thor seemed bored with this method of travel, and Bruce paced. The good doctor didn't like being cooped up in "pressurized metal containers," and Clint knew he worried about letting the Hulk loose. They might need Bruce's expertise in medicine, and, should Hulk get out, that expertise would be lost.

The only other person on board was a copilot that Fury trusted—the same one who had transported Clint and Natasha back and forth from New York since his return. Clint realized that the man would fly them home should Steve and Natasha be too severely injured.

They arrived at the first facility before any of them were ready. Bruce stayed behind while the other three went in with weapons blazing. Clint wore a specially designed suit that allowed him to draw his bow but retain enough body heat that the temperatures of Siberia didn't get to him. Much to their disappointment, the only people in the 2R facility were a few guards and one old caretaker. The underground complex was cold and empty, though they meticulously cleared it. On the lowest level, Stark found a red room with a metal bed and restraints in the middle of it, and Clint's heart sank. For years, Natasha had hated the color red, even refusing to wear a red dress, and she hadn't told Clint everything. But, what he did know, he kept to himself. The color red was her weakness, one of the ways the Black Widow Program had brainwashed her. Clint wasn't certain _how_ it worked, just that it did work.

Back in the Quinjet, they took off and headed for the second facility. By now, chatter in the Quinjet had resumed, with all of the plane's occupants discussing their next target. They had no reason to believe the layout would be the same, but Clint pointed out the nature of the red room. Even if nothing else was familiar, that single red room would be the most protected place in the facility. Given that both facilities were underground, that meant the lowest level.

Stark finally asked the question on everyone's minds. "So, how are we treating this? Arrest everyone? Kill everyone? Leave everyone unconscious?"

Clint glanced over his shoulder, schooling his features. "Fury's orders are to arrest those who can be arrested. Anyone resists, we're authorized to use deadly force _as necessary_."

"Well don't you sound official," Stark muttered. "In other words, punch the guy's lights out and then, if he gets back up, kill him?"

Even Clint had to laugh at the clarification.

Their first clue that they'd found the right facility was the gunfire. The Quinjet jerked from multiple bullet hits, the lights on the console telling them a lucky shot had taken out the reflection panels. Swinging the plane around to face the attack, Clint smiled grimly as the copilot took out the hidden outpost. He managed to land near the small building that hid the larger facility, and the copilot urged him out the back.

The gray sky had darkened over the course of their flight, and Clint felt the stiffness in his joints from hours in the pilot's chair. He gladly grabbed his bow, flipped it open, and settled his quiver on his back. His preparations took less than a minute, just enough time for Stark to put on his helmet and Thor to heft his hammer. Bruce agreed to stay behind and provide medical backup if they needed it. He was more concerned about The Other Guy bringing the facility down on their heads than he was of them needing his help.

The perimeter guards were easily dispatched, their weapons no match for Hawkeye's bow, Iron Man's armor, or Thor's hammer. They found the entrance to the main facility easily enough, and Clint breathed a sigh of relief at the heat. It was warmer here, which meant he could feel his bowstring a bit better without stiff fingers. The staircase led them down and to more guards, all of whom fought valiantly for their cause. Clint noticed, however, that the ratio of guards to attackers seemed awful low, particularly following the Battle for Manhattan, and wondered if 2R had underestimated them. Or was 2R so confident in their abilities to turn Natasha back to the Black Widow that they just didn't feel the need for guards? After all, Natasha was deadly and, when angry, could go on a murderous spree without blinking a single eye.

The three worked their way downward, coming across the prison level before they found anything resembling a red room. The hallway was dark, and Clint found a light switch near the door. He flicked it on, frowning at the narrow hall with multiple cells coming off of it. The sound of someone moving around echoed, and then Steve's voice came from the end. "Hello?"

Clint whirled to blink at Stark and then responded, "Rogers?"

"Barton?"

"Yeah." Clint began jogging down the hallway, looking into cells until he found the one where Steve strained against the shackle around his wrist. The metal had obviously been engineered for someone with the Captain's strength. Clint frowned. "Man, you look like crap!"

Steve chuckled. "Thanks." He waited while Stark used a laser to get through the door and then unlock his cuffs. He rubbed feeling into his wrists, ignoring the obvious sting from broken skin. "Give me a moment, and I'll be fine."

Clint continued peering into the cells. "Where's Natasha?"

"I don't know." Steve straightened, looking better by the minute. He glared. "They took her and injected me with something. I don't know what it was, but it's the same thing that took us down in Istanbul."

Clint nodded. "You good to walk?"

The relief on Steve's face faded, and a fierce expression replaced it. "I'm good to do a lot more than walk," he growled.

As the super soldier left the cell, Stark's hand landed on Clint's shoulder. "Something's not right," the billionaire said softly.

Clint agreed. "Yeah. This is too easy."

Though he couldn't see it, he sensed Stark was eying Steve's retreating back. "Keep an eye on him?"

"Find some of that serum in case?" Clint shook his head at the thought of tranq-ing his team leader. "We're not leaving him behind."

The two men followed Steve, who had been welcomed by Thor. They looked around, all of them trying to get their bearings. Clint met Steve's eyes. "What's been happening? How many guards? Schedules? That sort of thing."

Steve glanced around. "I haven't been out of the cell. When we first got here, Natasha asked me not to fight them. I didn't until today. . . .Or was it yesterday?" The soldier's confusion faded slightly. "The last time they took her, she looked weak."

Clint clenched his jaw. "How was she?"

"Hanging on." Steve met his eyes. "She kept saying her name, rank, and serial number."

That confirmed Clint's worst assumption. "They've got her in the red room."

"Yeah." Steve's voice was a growl. "And I have no idea where it is."

Clint sighed deeply. "Okay, let's get moving. Clear this level and move down."

Steve blinked. "Down?"

"You're underground, Cap." Clint eyed the captain's attire. "Too bad we don't have your uniform."

"I'll manage," Steve replied.

The conversation did a bit to help Clint's suspicions settle, though he didn't fully trust Steve. Not until he got the super soldier back to the Helicarrier and had him thoroughly checked by Bruce. But Steve seemed in control of his faculties, and he also appeared ready to. . . Clint quirked a grin. Steve was ready to avenge Natasha. Clint supposed it was a fitting mentality.

They found the red room by following their ears. They ran into several guards on the prison level, but they were easily dispatched. Several drew tranquilizer guns, firing off multiple darts, but Steve was able to dodge them. He found something to throw and, between his aim, Clint's bow, and Thor's anger, the Avengers easily overpowered them. Clint was able to respond to radio calls in Russian that soothed troubled superiors. He then took a few moments to study the map of the facility. It didn't show anything like a red room, but it gave them an idea of the layout one level down.

Once there, however, everything changed. Rather than tired white walls and tile, the floors were covered with thick red carpet. It muffled their footsteps but also quieted their attackers' approach. Clint pointed at Thor. "This is the only way up. Stay here. Make sure no one escapes."

Thor accepted the order without question, knowing just how important it could be.

Clint moved down the single corridor, keeping himself close to the wall and glancing at Stark when they reached a T-junction. He held up a hand, counting down from five silently, and then burst around one corner while Stark rounded the other. The arrow he'd had at the ready was released into a guard's shoulder before the guy could fire, and he went down with a shout. It echoed through the hallways, and Clint knew they'd have company before much longer. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a volley of gunfire came their way. Stark took the bullets in the back of his armor and used his repulsors to dispose of their attackers. Steve surged forward, using his fists and superior strength to dispatch the guards that rushed toward him. Clint blinked at the ferocious anger that the Captain displayed.

The three men moved through the facility as one. Clint chose the direction that led through the maze to the center of the level—likely the red room—as more guards rushed toward them. They heard Bruce cursing over their comms, the depth of the facility making communication spotty at best. What Clint did deduce was that reinforcements had arrived and their pilot had taken to the skies to defend the Quinjet. A quick check with Thor confirmed that he hadn't had anyone come up _or_ down. Still, Clint turned to Stark. "Get back to Thor. Clear the upper levels."

Stark spared one glance toward the furious Captain America. "You sure?"

Clint followed his line of sight. "Yeah. We'll get her out."

Stark took off, communicating his intentions over their comms.

Clint and Steve heard the screams at the same time. The sound echoed down the hall, worn and ragged with an edge of desperation. Clint's blood ran cold when he heard it. The Black Widow didn't scream, just like she didn't cry. If Natasha let out a sound like that. . . .

Steve rushed forward so quickly that Clint wasn't able to stop him. He hollered at the soldier, ordering him to stand down, as he chased Steve past more guards that went flying in the Captain's rage. Clint had seen Steve fighting in the Battle for Manhattan and knew the carnage the Cap could produce. But Steve would regret his actions if Clint wasn't able to calm him down. He tried one more time. "_Captain Rogers__! Stand down! That's an order!_"

Something in Clint's tone penetrated the haze around Steve's mind. He turned and glared.

Clint stopped at his side, his heart rate slightly elevated. "You can't just burst in there."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't know what they're doing to her." Clint met the soldier's eyes. "Look, I know how you feel, and I understand. She's my partner. But we can't put her life in more danger by rushing headlong into something we don't understand. Only Natasha truly gets what that room does to her, and, if it's anything like the last time she came in contact with these people, it's gonna get ugly. The moment she gets free. . . ." He shook his head. "There's a reason Nat hates red."

Steve frowned. "You're saying we may have to take her down?"

"At least until we get her out of there." Clint shook his head. "I don't know yet. And we don't know what they'll do if we just barge in."

Something in those words—the unspoken hint to the danger Natasha faced—got through to Steve. He nodded and stepped back, letting Clint lead the way as another scream let off into a whimper. Over the comms, Stark reported that the upper levels were still clear.

Clint found the door and burst through it, an arrow already knocked and drawn. He was bowled over by a slender man dodging out of the room. His shot went wild, ticking him off more than if the guy had just attacked him. "Stark! Someone headed your way!"

"Got him," Stark calmly replied a few moments later. Angry ranting and Thor's amused chuckle carried over the line. "Want us to keep him around?"

"Yes." Clint turned and eyed the rest of the room, feeling Steve's presence hovering just out of sight of the room. He drew another arrow and set it to his bowstring.

Every inch of the room was red. The walls, ceiling, and floor. Natasha lay on the metal bed, head hanging limply though he saw her eyes glinting through her gorgeous hair. Blood at her wrists and ankles told him how she'd fought, and her bare toes curled in spite of the cuts on the bottoms of her feet. Clint's heart dropped when he saw that. She healed superhumanly fast, but Natasha hated people touching her feet. They were so sensitive that anything more than a single nudge could send her into fits of giggles. He knew because he'd used it to break tension before, resulting in her move to wear protection whenever she wasn't alone.

Just behind Natasha, another form hovered. Clint's eyes lifted immediately from his partner's tortured body to stare into eyes as cold as the snow and ice outside. "You."

Joan Erickson smirked, her hand firmly wrapped around a gun that didn't waver as it aimed at Natasha's head. "Yes, Agent Barton. And I must say I'm glad SHIELD saw fit to send you."

Clint returned the smirk at the obvious bluff. "Oh, so am I."

When he took a step, she shook her head. "One more move, and I kill her."

Behind Clint, Steve growled. "You kill her, I kill you." His threat made Erickson snort in derision.

Clint, with his arrow still drawn, shook his head. "You shouldn't make threats you can't keep, Erickson."

"I never do." She held Clint's gaze. "For what it's worth, I had hoped you'd submit. Imagine what we could do with you at our side. Turning Hawkeye? _That_ would have been the achievement of a lifetime."

"Yet you let me walk out of your office." He tipped his chin toward Natasha. "And you let her fire you."

"Oh, this is just revenge. I haven't even started working on returning the Black Widow to her former glory." The gun wavered slightly as Erickson nudged Natasha. "Have I, Natalia?"

Natasha's head rolled back. "My name is Romanoff, Natasha A. Senior Special Agent. Serial number 98734520."

"Yes, so you keep reminding me," Erickson said with a sneer.

Clint saw the opening and took it. With barely a move, he released the arrow. It lodged in Erickson's shoulder, throwing her backward and sending her shot wide as she fell. Unable to maintain her grip on her gun, the weapon flew across the room to land harmlessly in a corner. Clint and Steve moved as one. While Steve gently undid Natasha's restraints, Clint rounded the metal table, another arrow already drawn and prepared. Erickson had managed to push herself up against a wall, her left hand around the arrow shaft that stuck out of her shoulder. Blood seeped between her fingers, but the wound wasn't fatal. Clint aimed the new arrow at her heart, his mind whirling.

It would be so easy. Just a simple flick of his fingers, and he could end the woman responsible for torturing Natasha and killing the other agents compromised by Loki. One little move, and he could rid the world of another menace. His mind called to him, using Loki's voice as it urged him to release the arrow, to smile as it embedded itself in Joan Erickson's heart, to enjoy her final moments.

"Go ahead!" she hissed. "Do it! Become the man I know you are—the one Loki was able to control."

The muscle in Clint's jaw jumped as he heard those words. "I thought you didn't believe he controlled me," he said softly.

"I never said that."

Clint narrowed his eyes, his arm beginning to shake with the strain of it all. He heard Steve gently soothing Natasha as she undoubtedly huddled in his arms, and part of him was grateful she'd found someone to care for her. But the other part of him screamed for revenge.

"Do it!" Erickson spat the words at him, and her eyes begged him to end everything.

In that moment, Clint Barton made a choice. He lowered the bow, replaced the arrow in his quiver, and reached for a pair of zip ties from the bunch he'd pocketed. None too gently, he yanked her arms around behind her and cuffed her wrists, making certain to pull the ties a little too tight and suppressing a grin when she cried out in pain. "Joan Erickson, you're under arrest for treason, kidnapping, assaulting a federal officer, and a whole host of other charges I can't even think about right now."

Then, with more grace than he actually felt, he dragged her to her feet and marched her out of the room.

oOo

Natasha buried her face in Steve's chest, her feet aching beyond belief as she tried to absorb his warmth. He smelled of sweat and staleness, the stench of their prison having seeped into his clothing. Right now, though, it reminded her she was still alive. That she was free. In one portion of her mind, she recognized that Clint was still in the room and talking to someone, but she couldn't make herself care.

Without a word, Steve gently looped one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders. He effortlessly lifted her and carried her from the red room. She opened her eyes once they'd left, able to focus on the white walls and not the red carpet. At least, not until she saw Thor posted at a set of stairs, holding a squirming man in his large hand. "Steve. Put me down."

Steve glanced at her. "You sure?"

"Yes." Natasha wanted to kiss him when he listened right away and set her on her feet. They hurt even more now, but she refused to show weakness. The only bit she allowed was Steve's steadying hand under her arm.

The man—Ivan Petrovitch, she now knew—turned from Thor to watch her. "Ah, Natalia."

At the sound of that name, Natasha allowed her anger free reign. She moved quickly, pinning Petrovitch against the wall with a strong hand around his neck. He fought weakly, bringing a smile to her face. "I," she began with a weary voice, "am _Natasha Romanoff_!" With that, she brought her right elbow into direct contact with his head, rendering him unconscious with one blow. The move threw her off balance, and Steve caught her. Looking up at his blond hair and worried eyes, she sighed. "Let's go home. I want to be out of the infirmary by Christmas!"

oOo

The return of the Black Widow and Hawkeye was cause for both celebration and concern on the Helicarrier. Most were thrilled to see Barton triumphantly marching Erickson through the corridors to the detention section, her bleeding shoulder having been bandaged by Banner on their way home. He had a stony expression on his face, one that was familiar with any who knew of his focus. This was Agent Clint Barton at his finest: a man in complete control of his mind and who would do the best thing for himself and his team. While many might not trust him, they still breathed a sigh of relief knowing he was back.

The Black Widow surprised everyone who was even acquainted with her. She came off the Quinjet in Captain America's arms, battered and weak. Her head tucked under his chin, she kept her eyes closed in an uncharacteristic show of trust. She'd been swathed in blankets, though a few caught a glimpse of bare feet, bruises, and cuts. Even Fury raised an eyebrow when Rogers carried Natasha Romanoff into the med lab, though he wasn't surprised when she immediately shooed the captain away for his own medical examination. A debriefing with those two would follow soon, but both of them needed medical attention and psychological evaluation. Barton had filled Fury in on Romanoff's condition when he contacted them from the Quinjet, and SHIELD's director knew they could be facing a long, uphill struggle.

He was not at all surprised to see McNeil, Barton, Banner, Thor, and Stark on the bridge when he finally got there. Looking around, he decided to open the can of worms and see what happened. "Report."

Shockingly, every member of the team looked at Barton. The archer shifted in his seat. "We found the facility, arrested whoever was in charge, and killed only the people trying to kill us."

Fury buried a smirk at the blunt report. "I'd like a bit more detail, Agent Barton."

At that point, Stark chimed in while the other men added details as necessary. Fury got a pretty good idea of their activities. Finally, he nodded. "Get your reports typed up and submitted to me within the next twenty-four hours. With the exception of Agent Barton, you're all dismissed."

The group again looked at Barton, though Fury found their expressions amusing. Stark silently promised to back the archer up in a fight, Thor looked ready to kill anyone who kept Barton against his will, and Banner seemed sympathetic. They needn't have worried. Once they'd cleared the room, Fury met Barton's eyes. "Dr. McNeil and I have discussed your situation during your absence."

Barton's eyebrows rose as his eyes flickered to the psychologist. "You have?"

McNeil smiled. "Yes. And, while it is my opinion that you should undergo continuing treatment for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I have no doubt that you are ready to return to active duty. Your actions with Erickson—as relayed by your team—are a prime example of your steadiness in the field. You're cleared to start going on missions again."

Fury watched the news impact one of his best agents with a vague smile. Barton let out a slight chuckle, his face covered in shock. He reigned in his emotions a second later, his brow lowering as he nodded. "Thanks, Doc." He glanced at Fury. "Anything else?"

Fury shook his head. "You're dismissed, Agent Barton."

The archer stood and turned toward the door before he froze. Fury frowned, wondering what had occurred to him. Barton held up a finger as if he'd just remembered something, spun on his heel, crossed the bridge, and proceeded to plant a loud, juicy kiss on Agent Hill's cheek where she stood directly under the mistletoe. Hill sputtered indignantly, wiping off the kiss, as snickers bounced around the bridge. Barton grinned at her, his eyes sparkling. "Merry Christmas!"

As he left, Hill turned to face the room with her jaw hanging open. She'd forgotten about the mistletoe that Fury had left hanging. Her eyes found her boss's, and she simply stared as, for the first time _ever _in the history of the Helicarrier, SHIELD Director Nick Fury laughed.

oOo

The med bay was quiet when Clint finally made his way to Natasha's bedside. He'd been in here earlier, but Steve had settled in the chair, and both the assassin and soldier were sleeping. Content to let them rest, Clint had gone to his own quarters for a shower and change of clothes.

Now, though, he needed to talk to his partner. Hearing that he'd been cleared for active duty both thrilled and alarmed him. He wasn't ready to take on missions yet, not with his realization about not wanting to kill people. He just wasn't that man any longer.

Besides, he needed to see Natasha and assure himself that she would be okay.

He found her awake, staring at the gray wall with a smile on her face. The chair where Steve had sat earlier was empty, and a potted orchid fluttered in the draft from the Helicarrier's air vent. She turned and saw him staring at the flowers. "From Stark. He flew back to New York for them."

Clint nodded, resisting the urge to smile. "How are you?" he asked as he slipped into the chair.

Natasha met his eyes. "Good." She shifted on the bed. "I'll be glad when I can walk again. How are you?"

"McNeil cleared me."

She smiled again. "That's good."

He shrugged. "I don't know, Nat. I mean, is that all I am? Just a killer?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I need you out there, Clint."

"No, you don't." He shook his head. "The last six months or so proved that. And you'll still have me on the team." He sighed, running a hand over his face. "Maybe I'm just tired and should get some sleep."

She reached out, and he happily laced their fingers together. Times like this had bred the misconception that they were romantically involved even when they weren't. She looked at their hands. "You realize we'll have to 'break up' now, right?"

Clint's eyes widened, and he blinked. "You're serious about Steve?"

Another smile touched her lips. "He kept me alive." Letting go of his hand, she shifted position. "Clint, if he hadn't been there, talking to me and holding me, I don't know that I would have made it. I was so ready to give in, but I kept seeing his face. He gave me a reason to keep going."

"You always said love was for children." He frowned slightly. "What changed, Nat?"

Her smile turned sad. "I never got to be a child," she admitted. "I don't know what that's like. Maybe it's time I find out."

Clint smiled at that and rose, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "I think that's a great idea."

He left her alone then, needing to sleep more than anything else. He had some decisions of his own to make, but he refused to do so right now. For now, his team was back together.

~TBC


	12. Where The Love Light Gleams

**Author's Note:** Here it is! The final chapter. Almost sad to see it go, but I have several stories in the works-both for Avengers and for the Bourne series. For those of you who are Clint/Natasha fans, I am considering writing part of Clint's backstory that was presented in "Long Time Comin'," the story of how he and Natasha met for the first time. But my next projects are going to be a departure from Avengers for Bourne, namely Aaron Cross. Also, though it's not announced at the end of this chapter, there is one more story in this series. I just haven't had time to listen to music, plot it out, or choose a title. (Again, working on a Bourne story.)

Another quick note: there were some minor changes made to the previous chapter. They don't affect the flow of the story, but I was rushed to get it published and overlooked a few things. So, I've updated it.

As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think!

Merry Christmas!  
~lg

oOo

Natasha and Steve recovered remarkably well from their ordeal—physically, anyway. The SHIELD medical team kept Natasha until she could walk without pain. The bruises from the abuse her feet had taken, along with various other injuries and her cracked ribs, took a while to heal up. But, as soon as she could stand and move about with relative ease, doctors saw no reason to keep her cooped up in the Helicarrier medical bay. She knew a few of them breathed a sigh of relief at her departure and smiled at the action. Out of the two of them-Natasha and Hawkeye-she had given the doctors the least amount of trouble.

Steve had even fewer physical injuries, but the doctors kept him just as long as they kept Natasha in order to watch him for reactions to 2R's serum. The first night he was back on the Helicarrier, he woke to Natasha's screams and rushed to her room. Only the sound of his voice calmed her down, and he took to spending his nights there. It wouldn't last, and he resolved to find ways to help her cope.

Nevertheless, forty-eight hours after their rescue, both the Black Widow and Captain America were released to return to their homes in New York. They smiled when they saw that Clint was their pilot, and Steve stood behind Natasha's seat as she slipped into the copilot's position. Clint flew as carefully as possible, always watching from the corner of his eye as they encountered a bit of turbulence. Another winter storm had moved into New York, settling over the city with a a haze that made all of them smile. While most people saw it as depressing weather, the three in the Quinjet welcomed the ready excuse to stay put for an extended length of time.

Landing on Stark Tower's helipad, Clint opened the back of the jet and picked up Natasha's bags. She walked out, her face turned up and a smile lighting her features as she tried to catch snowflakes on her tongue. Steve smiled at her antics, but Clint understood the deeper meaning. _I never got to be a child._ Her words from her first night back echoed through his head, and he thought catching snowflakes was a great way to start. He made plans to show her how to use maple syrup to make candy on the snow, as well as finding a way to decorate Christmas cookies. Both of them had missed so much in their youth that now, with their recoveries well underway, he wanted to see that they could be children. Just for a little bit. A quick glance at Steve told him he'd have to involve the super soldier in anything they did. And he was okay with that.

The week passed quickly. Stark finished tracing Saddler's money trail and found the cash had been put into a Caymans account used by 2R to fund their activities. All of it was there, and then some, so the billionaire saw to it that it was returned to its rightful owner. Fury didn't bicker about it but said it was fitting since SHIELD never did anything for Saddler when he went missing. The day the money was returned, Clint took a trip to Beth Saddler's home, informing her that the money had been recovered and her husband's killers found. She fell apart on him, and he didn't hesitate to draw her into a warm hug. The poor woman just needed someone to keep her together for a bit, and he willingly obliged. Once she'd cried herself out and closed the door behind him, Clint stood on her front porch and had an epiphany.

It felt good to bring closure to Beth Saddler's life. While he couldn't give her husband back to her, he could see to it that she received his benefits and was cared for until she died. The grieving process would be long and hard, but she had the strength to come through it. And he'd be there for her every step of the way. Part of his job with SHIELD wasn't to hold people's hands after a mission, and Clint found he liked the ability to just help another person.

Clint blinked. He could help people. And never leave SHIELD. The combination had never occurred to him before this moment, but the satisfaction he felt with having achieved some sort of justice for James and Beth Saddler couldn't be put into words. Driving back to Stark Tower, he paced his room while he thought and eventually ended up on the balcony in the snow. The Quinjet that Fury had assigned to the Avengers was covered with the stuff, and Clint blinked at it. For some reason, a Quinjet covered in snow was _not_ pretty.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his insulated coat, he turned his back on the sight and wandered to the railing. The snow fell quicker now, and he knew the clouds would thicken as the night passed. There was no wind, and the peacefulness around him suited the season. He blew out a breath, smiling as it puffed in the air, and closed his eyes. The world was quiet.

He had so many decisions facing him. Fury had cornered him the day he visited Beth Saddler and asked if he'd be ready to return to missions after Christmas. Clint hadn't been able to give the man an answer. He wanted to say yes, to enjoy the feeling that SHIELD's director trusted him again. After six long months, the feeling was foreign. But he didn't want to return to what he had been.

Part of him still believed he would always be responsible for the events of Loki's visit. Not in the way that he'd felt for these past months, but in another, much different way. Clint's job with SHIELD—as a sniper doing assassinations—had formed the way he thought and acted. He'd looked over his shoulder for so many years that it was now second-nature to give a cover story, an alias, something that wasn't true. He'd never understood why Coulson left the field and became a handler. . .until now. In the last six months, the only lives he'd taken had been in self-defense. First, there was the Chitauri attack, and he simply didn't value their lives. They were squishy, as Stark called them. After that, he'd fought men intent on killing either him or his brother, and then he'd killed to get Natasha and Steve out of the 2R facility. When given the chance to murder someone in cold blood, though, he'd stepped back. Joan Erickson certainly deserved it. The things that Natasha described that woman doing were downright evil. But he'd had a _choice_. And he'd made the right call.

And that made his decision. Standing on the balcony of Stark Tower, with the snow falling around him, Clint Barton chose to become more than just an assassin. He had a reason to leave the field now, much like Coulson had done years ago, and he was at peace with it.

The sound of the door opening pulled his head around, and Clint smiled when he recognized Steve's footsteps. The super soldier moved to his side, his face clear. "Penny for them."

Clint chuckled. "Just making decisions about SHIELD."

Steve gave him a sharp glance. "You planning on leaving?"

"SHIELD? Nah." Clint looked over the remaining battle scar from Loki's attack. "I'm planning on asking Fury for a transfer though."

Steve nodded as if he understood. "Listen, I just wanted to come out here and say thanks." He shrugged. "For coming after us."

Clint looked at the other man. "You're my friend. It's what I'd do for any of my friends." He sighed. "Besides, I owe you."

"You don't owe me a thing."

"You kept Nat alive." Clint turned to face Steve. "She and I talked the night you got back. She said the only reason she made it through—the only reason she didn't _break—_is because of you. If you hadn't been there, I don't know if I'd have my best friend anymore."

Steve held Clint's direct stare and nodded slowly, sticking out his hand. "We're even. You came for us, and that makes up for anything in my book."

Thinking about Natasha's mentality on ledgers, Clint shook Steve's hand. "Deal." He glanced over the super soldier's shoulder and saw Natasha standing just inside the Commons, watching the two of them. The sun had begun to set, the snow clouds darkening to make the Commons even brighter. The Christmas tree sparkled, the other lights Stark had added bright against the night. He nodded toward her. "One of us should probably go tell her everything's okay."

Steve looked toward the tower. "I'll do it." He met Clint's eyes. "You've got the Avengers support, whatever you decide."

Clint stayed in place as Steve slipped back into the tower. Natasha immediately linked her arm through his elbow and let him lead her away from the window. Clint smiled. She hadn't been waiting for him. She'd been waiting for _Steve_. He always wondered if being replaced as the most important man in Natasha's life would hurt, and now he knew. While he had a sense of sadness as their friendship was changing, he was also happy. Change was good, even when it came because of loss. The Avengers had rallied around Coulson's death, using that as their motivation. But that motivation had faded the longer they'd known each other, giving themselves a family on whom they could depend. For the first time since he was a child, Clint knew what it was like to _not_ be alone.

Deciding he'd been outside for far too long, he joined the group in the Commons and laughed with them as Pepper walked them all through the art of decorating Christmas cookies. Steve was good at decorating them while Natasha resorted to adding sparkles to plain icing. Clint tried to make his look as good as Steve's, but he failed. Miserably. In the end, the group ended up laughing at his pitiful Christmas trees and gingerbread men. Bruce mimicked Natasha, and Stark just ate the cookies. The laughter and warmth gave him the strength he needed later, when he sat down at his SHIELD computer, logged in, and began the paperwork that would change the course of his career—and life—forever.

oOo

Christmas Day. For decades, it had passed barely noticed by Nick Fury. He had no family and, for many years, no friends with whom to spend the holiday. So it came as no surprise to those who pulled the Christmas shift that Fury appeared on the bridge as usual. All eyes glanced up, but someone had removed the mistletoe. All were sad to see it go, particularly after Barton's oft-repeated antics and the kiss he'd given Hill. Hill still shuddered any time it was mentioned, though she took the ribbing with her usual grace. She'd gone home to spend the time with her family, and she had wished Fury a Merry Christmas before leaving.

Now, Fury stared at the tablet in his hand as he left his office and boarded a Quinjet bound for New York. Since the Avengers' plane occupied their helipad, he obtained permission to land nearby and came into the tower via the main entrance. JARVIS greeted him in the elevator, and he quietly asked that no one be informed of his arrival. He had mixed feelings about his mission today. Barton's request had been surprising but not unexpected. Much had changed for the archer, most of it for the better. While Barton would always carry a level of responsibility for his actions during Loki's attack, he'd recovered from the deep depression and trauma that had been dealt to him.

The elevator doors opened, and the sound of laughter made Fury smile. He looked out and saw the team Coulson believed in sprawled all over various pieces of furniture. The smell of Christmas dinner cooking made his stomach growl. Stark stood behind the counter of the kitchen/wet bar, holding a drink and chattering away as Banner and Pepper argued with him. Steve and Natasha sat side by side on a couch, the captain's arm around her shoulders as she leaned into him. The signs of her recent captivity had faded, a testament to the physical upgrades done by the Red Room in her past, and she looked happy as she related some story to Thor. Barton was nowhere to be seen, though Fury wasn't able to stop the way he glanced up at the air ducts, wondering what sort of practical joke would drop out of them this time.

At that moment, Barton came trotting up the stairs, holding a worn yet familiar guitar. He froze at the top of the steps. "Director."

That one word had an amusing effect. The argument between Pepper, Banner, and Stark stopped mid-sentence while Natasha's feet flew as she straightened from her comfortable position next to Steve. The captain jumped to his feet, military training kicking in, as Thor also rose, though slowly. Fury met every eye. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Stark shook his head. "No, of course not. We're just, you know, having a _team_ Christmas."

Natasha glared at the billionaire. "Stark!"

Fury held up a hand. "It's fine. I'll say my piece and be on my way."

Pepper came around her boyfriend, touching his arm and receiving a nod in return. "Of course not. You're welcome to join us. There's plenty of food, and we have some music planned." She motioned to the still-frozen archer.

Fury glanced at the guitar in Barton's hand. "Is that. . . ."

"Yes, Sir." Barton swallowed. "It was Coulson's. When I delivered his letter to Jennifer, she gave it to me. Said he'd want me to have it."

Fury nodded. "She chose wisely." He faced the archer and held out the tablet. "Your transfer paperwork. It's been approved."

Natasha immediately rushed to Barton's side. "Transfer?"

Barton didn't answer her, too busy looking over the specifics. Fury decided to fill her in. "Agent Barton will now be heading up a new department: Special Investigations. This isn't Internal Affairs as there's already a department for that. This is investigations in which SHIELD desires an obvious, but discreet presence. He will answer directly to me except for the rare occasion that you, Agent Romanoff, require his assistance or the Avengers require his presence. In which case, he will answer to the appropriate person, whether it be you or Captain Rogers."

Barton swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing as he did so. "Thank you, Sir."

Fury allowed his lips to tip upward. "It's the least I can do. And you deserve it." He saw the emotion on the other man's face and decided to give him some room to breathe. Glancing around, the first thing his gaze settled on was the Santa and elves. Seeing the eye patch, he actually smiled. "Stark?"

Stark held up his hands. "Don't blame that on me. That's all Legolas!"

Fury chuckled. "Santa Fury." He rubbed his own shaved jaw. "I might need to find a costume."

Banner chose that moment to enter the conversation. "With all due respect, Director, _don't_!"

The group laughed, covering Barton's examination of his transfer paperwork. By the time the exchange had finished, the archer had recovered and looked as mischievous as ever. He held up the guitar. "Who wants music?"

The Avengers absorbed Fury. While a bit tense around him, they welcomed him into their home. Barton settled on the couch, playing and singing a few Christmas songs and reminding everyone that he had more talents than just archery. And Fury understood his desire to switch jobs. Wet work wasn't for everyone, and most people grew tired of it. While Barton was uniquely suited for it, he'd done nothing but wet work for nearly sixteen years. It was time for a change, and Fury couldn't think of a better man suited for the job of Special Investigations.

After carols came dinner, skillfully prepared by Pepper, Barton, Romanoff, and Rogers. Then, after clearing the dishes, the group gathered around for gifts. As Barton passed him, Fury nudged the smaller man's arm. Barton blinked again at what Fury slipped into his palm, and the two men exchanged amused grins. Fury nodded. "I believe you know what to do with that."

"Yeah, I think I do." Barton put the object in his pocket, though Natasha picked up on the exchange. Fury allowed Barton to come up with his own cover story for the pass and sat back to observe the gifts.

The reactions were varied. Stark insisted on opening the tradition and, instead of grabbing a gift under the tree, dropped to one knee in front of Pepper. She stared in amazement as he gracefully proposed to her and said "Yes" with tears in her eyes. As the couple kissed, Fury saw Natasha and Steve exchange happy but significant glances. If things kept going between those two, he suspected there would be another proposal sometime within the next year.

After Stark's rather momentous opening, he passed around gifts. They varied based on individuals, but the most notable in Fury's opinion was the bottle of Courvoisier VSOP Exclusif that Rogers gave to Barton. The meaning wasn't lost on anyone, and the archer agreed to serve a glass after they finished with the gifts. _In memory of Coulson,_ he said.

The Secret Santa produced a lot of excitement. Thor frowned as he received a single envelop from Natasha but slowly became more and more excited. He laughed in delight when it finally dawned on him that he'd be able to take Jane on a month-long European tour, all expenses paid. Bruce's gift to Tony—a Caribbean cruise for the billionaire and Pepper—was perfectly timed, and Natasha looked as if she wanted to cry when Thor gave her season's tickets to the Bolshoi Theater and Ballet in Moscow. She agreed to take Steve, who had never been, and quietly hugged the big Asgardian. Banner grew quiet when Pepper gave him a certificate and explained that she'd started The Bruce Banner Foundation, a nonprofit organization providing medical care in Third World nations. Steve's face lit up when he saw the turntable and records Barton had bought, and Barton laughed at the state-of-the-art sound system that Stark had designed. All in all, the Avengers Secret Santa seemed to be a success.

Then, Steve's face fell. He turned to Pepper. "I'm sorry, I wasn't able to get you anything."

Pepper smiled and started digging through the discarded wrapping paper. She came up with two large red bows. "You got me something," she said to Steve, who looked absolutely confused. She plopped one bow on Steve's head and the other on Romanoff's shoulder. "You both came home for Christmas."

Fury smiled at that. He sat back as Barton served the cognac, Banner fingered the certificate for his organization, and Pepper and Stark started planning their honeymoon cruise. After handing out cognac—including one to Fury—Barton took the time to look over every person's shoulder and see their gift. He admired Pepper's massive engagement ring, clapped Banner on the shoulder, gave Thor advice on restaurants in Spain, and grinned when Steve flipped through his records. Moving to the couch where Steve and Natasha were sitting, he pretended to listen while Steve spoke about one of the records, apparently a favorite of his from the '40s. His left hand, however, slipped into his pocket and pulled out the mistletoe Fury had brought. Holding it above both Steve and Natasha, he rocked back on his heels and allowed the chaos to take place.

Stark pointed, grin wide. "Hey, Capsicle! You gotta kiss the girl!"

Steve looked completely nonplussed for a moment while Banner and Thor both chuckled. "What? Oh!"

Natasha rolled her eyes toward Barton. "I _will_ kill you," she promised. "Later."

Barton returned her grin. "Looking forward to it."

As the Avengers watched, Steve gave Natasha a chaste kiss, though her expression promised a steamier one later, and Fury sat back to sip his cognac. This team had finally come together. Barton had returned home and to his place as SHIELD's resident prankster. He had a long ways to go, yet, but he was healing from his encounter with Loki. Banner had settled in New York. Steve and Natasha had one another.

Satisfied, Fury stood and, without anyone noticing, left the tower, his Christmas complete. He looked up at the falling snow and smiled. _You were right, Coulson_, he thought. _They are the best. They're a team._

~The End~


End file.
